


Song of Endings

by ThetaWolfe



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood and Gore, Bonding, Character Death, Dragons, Gratuitous Violence, Harry is Drogon, Roughly Following Canon, eating of people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2017-11-06
Packaged: 2018-06-04 09:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6653218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaWolfe/pseuds/ThetaWolfe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had slept for an age and more. When he awoke, it was to a wailing scream and gentle singing. Once, he had been known as Harry, a word worn like a crown, the burden of it mantled upon him and dragging his head down until his neck nearly snapped from the weight of it.  His mother called him Drogon, the word falling from her pink lips like a prayer and a command. It did not matter what she called him, Drogon was as good a name as any and it was not shadowed with the responsibility and grief as the name Harry had been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drogon

He had slept for an age and more.  He had slumbered as the earth trembled and the lands shifted, the oceans rose and fell and rose again.  The skies shook and the seasons broke and still he did not awake.  When he finally stirred it was to a darkness so black no light could penetrate it.  He could not recall how he had gotten to where he is as he was quite unsure where he was at all, but he did not let his lack of memory trouble him.

There was much that he had forgotten, much of his past that eluded him but he was content to let the knowledge remain lost as he was suspended in darkness and cocooned in silence.  For a brief moment his surroundings became warm and he felt himself twitch in pleasure.  Coiling tighter about himself in the heat, he slept some more.

Although he could remember what light looked like and the warmth of the sun upon his face, he could not bring forth an image of the sky nor the color the leaves became when it grew cold.  He knew the concept of it - surely things changed when seasons turned - but he could not recall upon how he knew such things.

Sometimes he could feel that summer heat once more, a warmth that would settle over his darkness and rouse him from his slumber.  He could almost make himself believe that he could hear singing when his darkness became warm, but he knew that to be folly.  There was no singing in his sanctuary.

He had a very vague memory of another darkness not nearly so black and a confining space that was entirely different.  It was less tight but it felt more suffocating.  Although similar, it was different in all the ways that mattered.  Just the thought of it filled him with an anger that he did not fully understand and a sense of child-like fear.  He cast the memory aside and listened instead to the singing that was not truly there.

This darkness was his sanctuary, not his prison.  He disliked that sometimes it felt that way.

He had had a name once, a long time ago.  A word others had used and it was him of which they spoke.  His name...it was...he could not remember.  It was a heavy thing, that much he could recall, a burden mantled upon him.  He had worn it like a crown, pretty to look upon but painful to wear and it dragged his head down until his neck nearly snapped from the weight of it.

His name had meant power, not like the _words_ of power, spoken magic used and twisted.

Magic was as familiar to him as his darkness.  Words of healing and words of pain, words both great and terrible.  A single word for death, he did not remember what it had sounded like, but he knew that word to be green.

His name was a different sort of word, but he knew it to be a powerful one.  Trying to recall it left him with a pain in his chest and a feeling of foreboding, so he vowed not to remember it at all.

When he dreamed he saw a stone castle standing sentinel over a dark forest and a deep lake, both hiding creatures of imagination and death for the unwary.  She was gone now, crumblings of aged rocks where her foundation had once stood, memories of ramparts as tall as the clouds.  Time had torn the glorious castle apart because death had claimed all those who could have defended her.  He had cursed time and death frequently but he could not remember the reason why.  When he did, he wished to forget once again.

His world had been green and beautiful.  Time took the green until everything became brown and all that was seemed to wither and die.  There had still been blue, but not upon the surface of the world.  The blue there had dried and cracked and crumbled.  The only place left to be found was above...but even that did not last.

He had been in love once, a love so deep he could almost still feel that dark place within his heart she had left when death had claimed her too.  Her hair had been like fire and her passion an inferno.  They had created life together, three small things that grew and loved as well.  Time took all but the faintest memory of them and he remembered why he had cursed it so.

In the end it was time and death that laid ruin to everything he had known.  He had cursed and wailed and begged as death and time grabbed and gobbled all that was left and yet neither would lay claim to him.  He had stood unmolested and unchanging as everything around him just died.

What was left of magic had tried to soothe his hurt and his rage even as she too withered away.  He had spoken words of power, but each syllable tore  _something_  away from him until he was bits and pieces of what he once was and the words simply became sounds and did nothing.

He did not remember falling into the deep sleep, could not recall even the simplest of memories before his long slumber and he wondered if they would ever return to him...unsure if he even wanted them to.  Every tiny bit he could remember left him feeling angry and bereft. Perhaps it would be better if he simply forgot altogether.

When he awoke, becoming truly aware for the first time, it was to a wailing scream of agony that nearly drowned out the gentle singing as his sanctuary was washed in heat.

The voice and tune he had heard before, a delicate undulation in words that stirred something within him and he realized that it was the same melody.  It had not been a part of his imaginings after all.  He pushed forward, straining to get closer in the confined space that pressed against him and suddenly his sanctuary had become too small and too tight.

Clawing and straining, he raged against the darkness until a crack appeared upon the black, suspended above him.  The crack was red, alighting the dark as he pressed himself toward it. The crimson fractured further, hundreds of tiny lines that branched apart like lightning in the sky and he finally felt something give.  He gave one last great heave before it all fell apart and he tumbled out, wet limbs spilling into ash as fire surrounded him.

For a single moment he panicked, flames licking at his limp and useless limbs before he realized that he too was of the fire and the orange and red flames could not harm him.  The heat ate away the slick that coated him, steam rising from his scales, leaving him dry and itchy.

Giant hands scooping him from the ash, skin pale and thin but as warm as he, and he cried out in surprise.  The sound startled him as it came out different then he remembered.  The being pulled him up and brushed careful fingers down his spine as he rumbled in pleasure.  It was then that he realized that the thing - the person - that held him was not overly large…it was he that was so small.

The woman cradled him to her naked breast and he craned his neck to gaze into her violet eyes as she reached back into the fire and ash to pull another from its depths.  The tiny green thing squawked with the same high pitch screech that he had used and he turned to look at it in curiosity.  His sibling, for it could be nothing else, cried and shrieked until the woman hushed it with gentle fingers and a soft voice.

Another cry had him turning back to the flames, the feeble noise barely heard over the popping wood and roaring fire.  Pale fingers dug into the soot, staining long nails as he climbed up to get a better view.  He settled upon her shoulder, tiny claws not large enough to leave more than a scratch upon the delicate skin even if he had wanted to.

The green suckled ravenously at her milk heavy breast and his own stomach clenched in a hunger that he had not felt in over an age.  Before he could claim the other swollen nipple to feed, she had guided the much smaller gold to it.  He squawked indignantly at being denied, but she settled him quickly with a finger scratching along his itchy jaw.

He contemplated briefly of forcing the gold or green aside to sate his hunger.  They were tiny little things, delicate and frail and so very new.  He was not much larger than them, but he was enough to make a difference.  He may have also been tiny and frail and new to this world, but his soul was old…so very old.

They were not like he, they did not have memories of before the great sleep.  Their hunger pressed into his mind like a hammer and he felt nothing beyond it but the discomfort of being born.  His vision alighted upon the broken shards of what could only be an egg and he thought hatched was probably a better description for their emergence into the world.  Their minds did not work like his and when he crooned, pressing a query at them, he only received confusion and the double sensation of hunger on top of his own.

Draping his body around the thin neck of the woman that held them, he settled himself to wait even as his stomach rumbled.  The thin, soot covered fingers darted along his muzzle, pressing lightly to his scales in a feather light touch that soothed his aggravation.  He did not know if she was rewarding him for his patience or exploring his form in curiosity but he cared not which as long as she continued to ease the itch that had settled across his drying hide.

He purred in pleasure, chest thrumming, as she turned awe filled violet eyes to his.  Her wonderment danced against his mind and he tried to send contentment back but he was unsure if he was successful.  Her mind was very different from his, more so then even his siblings.

She hummed a soft tuned as she pulled the green away, her nipple swollen and glistening with milk. He let himself fall into the crook of her arm and clamped toothless jaws around it.  The green protested softly and the woman began to sing gently to calm it.  He recognized the melody as the one that he had thought to be imaginings and he knew it had been her voice he had heard all along.

He rumbled in satisfaction, voice thrumming into a purr as his tiny claws kneaded at her breast, filling his stomach with sweet milk.  Her song caressed his ears and he could finally remember what love had felt like.

It felt much like this.

~ Page Break ~

His name had been Harry once, but never just Harry.  He remembered Harry-the-Boy and Harry-the-Hero.  His mother called him something different, Drogon, the word falling from her pink lips like a prayer and a command all at once.  It did not matter what she called him, Drogon was as good a name as any and it was not shadowed with the history and grief as the name Harry had been.

So he became Drogon.

She was not his first mother, though he could not recall a memory of her aside from the sound of her voice scared and pleading.  What she begged for he did not know, but he felt it had been important to him.  This new mother was not the one who clutched him nor his siblings, but she brought them into this world, hatched them from their eggs, suckled them at her breasts and smothered them with a mother’s love and affection.

His mother was a tiny thing, he realized.  Compared to him she was a giant, but nearly everything was at the moment so he could not use himself as a reference.  When Drogon perched upon her shoulder and watched the red dirt and white rocks slowly pass by, he noticed that she was shorter than all but the children.

Her hair was a beautiful silver white and he found that neither he nor his brothers could resist snapping at it playfully when a breeze caught her loose locks and they fluttered in the wind.  She would grumble in irritation and untangle her hair from their teeth but she never told them to stop.

Drogon was always careful when she let him perch on her shoulders.  He had to make certain that his growing claws dug only ever into her leather pauldron and he kept his limbs from brushing her irritated and sunburned skin.  His brothers were never as careful as he, but she did not complain, even when they accidently drew blood.

The other humans, the ones that followed her, called her Khaleesi, though he knew it to be a title and not her name.  He wondered if it was anything like a Lady or a Dame, but the reverence in which they spoke it made him think the translation was closer to Queen.  She was beautiful, even with her hair unwashed and escaping her braid, lips chapped and skin peeling.  She would be even more so when they finally escaped this harsh and barren land.

Daenerys, he learned her name several days later as the eldest of her khalasar fell asleep and did not awake.  The women killed the weakest of horses, more of a pony then a Dothraki steed with a rounded back and shortened stumps for legs, and built him a pyre to ride into the afterlife.  Drogon thought it was a perfectly good waste of meat and his stomach rumbled from the smell of the horse burning in the fire.

Occasionally Daenerys would let all three of them out at the same time, two laying entwined upon the small wooden cages while she carried the third.  She was diligent in switching between them, trying not to show favoritism.  And yet it was Drogon more often than not who would claim her shoulder pauldron.  He knew that it was simply because he was much more careful with his claws that got sharper each day that passed then the other two.  His brothers seemed unbothered by the extra affection their mother bestowed upon him, and when his mind brushed theirs he felt no jealousy or hostility from them.

He had been human once, though not like Daenerys or those who followed her.  He had been a being of magic, a wizard.  His mother too was such a being but hers was a passive magic.  As he watched his sibling squabble upon the cage he realized he was of magic still, just of a different sort.

When he had been Harry he had had dreams of being a dragon, stretching his wings and taking to the sky as his shadow cast the world beneath into darkness.  Harry-the-Boy had loved those dreams, the feeling of freedom following him into the waking world.  Every time the wind touched his face he could almost imagine being amongst the clouds.

Harry-the-Hero hated them.  As he got older and exchanged his cupboard for a gilded cage he knew that there was no such thing as freedom in the world.  When he escaped one prison it was through the bars of another.  The lie left him bitter and resentful the next morning.

Drogon-the-Dragon was so far quite unimpressed with actually being the creature out of the fairytale.  At just over a month he had grown from the size of a rodent to just smaller than a cat.  His limbs were uncoordinated, muscles twitching at random and throwing off his balance at the worst possible times.  Twice he had fallen off the back of the horse that Ser Jorah had leant to carry the cages, when he had been doing no more than sitting.  The beast had not even been moving the first time when his leg muscles had started twitching and it was only the quick reflexes of Irri, his mother’s handmaiden, which had saved him from taking a tumble in the hard dirt.

Most of the day he spent asleep, body heavy and mind tired during the few hours he forced himself awake.  His wings pulled him off balance nearly as often as they helped him keep it, and they were still too small to even glide upon.  It had been days since he had eaten, jaw bone aching and gums irritated as his first teeth broke through.

So far, being a dragon was not nearly as fun as what he had dreamt it would be.

Daenerys cooed at him, tongue clicking as she held a piece of raw horse meat before him.  Drogon coughed, nose wrinkling and red frills flaring as he tried and failed to call forth fire.  It left his throat feeling raw and a strange mucus coating his tongue.  His mother had stopped breast feeding them several days ago when he had latched onto her nipple and she had pulled him away with a cry of pain as his new teeth broke skin.

Rhaegal, the green, had his first tooth come in last night and had shrieked up a storm when their mother had denied him her milk.  She had taken the gold, Viserion, to feed out of sight of the green and Drogon had found himself snapping at his brother until he behaved.  Viserion had yet to start to teeth and Drogon saw Daenerys run her fingertips over the gold’s gums to check for fangs before she would bare her breast to him.

It was a curious thing to be a dragon.  He had known dragons before, and yet he could not help but feel as if what he remembered and what was now were very different.  When the green would hiss and snap at him playfully, sometimes his brother’s scent changed.  It only happened when Drogon forced his sibling to submit to him, and only for a brief moment.  It took Drogon longer then he cared to admit, but one day he realized Rhaegal scent was less male in those instances.

He had spent several days thinking upon it when he learned that Viserion had that same skill.  At first Drogon thought it to be a defense mechanism for when their playful games got too rough, one of their scents changed and the other calmed right down.  It was then that he realized that it was not just their scent that became different.  For a brief moment, his brothers had truly become female.

Drogon had spent that night in his covered cage carefully examining himself and he came to the conclusion that he too could switch between genders.  His body and that of his siblings were naturally male, but if provoked they could become female for a short time.  He wondered if it was just for breeding or if there was another evolutionary reason behind a species that was duel gendered.

Such a thing might have bothered him - had he been human - but Drogon was a dragon and he knew that it simply was what it was.  Although it was a curious feature, and it solved the issue of dragons dying out as they were the only three in existence, at the moment it was unimportant in the scheme of things.

Drogon heard his mother sigh softly and he chirped at her in sympathy as she pulled the meat away.  He would not eat it raw and he was too young to make fire himself.  He tried to push that thought at Daenerys but she just tucked the meat back into the pouch and turned to her handmaiden as Doreah approached her.

“What did your brother say about them, Khaleesi?” Doreah asked softly.  Drogon found her accent and features curious.  She was not as most that accompanied them, her skin too pale and eyes too round.  The way she spoke was as if she had been trained to speak in such a way to get exactly what she wanted.  Daenerys spoke like one born into a prominent family, Doreah spoke like one pretending to be highborn.

“He said they ate meat,” Daenerys replied after a moment as she ran dry and cracked fingers along the horns that decorated his jaw.  Her chipped nails caught along the base and Drogon crooned in pleasure as the shedding and dead skin came away at last.

“He didn’t tell you what kind of meat?” Her hands twisted around her fingers, steps uneven and halting in a nervous manner.

Daenerys turned to her and Drogon squawked as was forced to adjust his balance or fall.  “My brother didn’t know anything about dragons!” Her tone was sharp like a parent reprimanding a child and Doreah’s pace stuttered as she drew back and lowered her head into a more submissive posture.

Drogon pressed calm into his mother as she too drew to a halt.  The caravan continued around them, a few of the khalasar casting curious looks in their direction, but no one approached.  He felt the tense muscles release under his talons and after a moment Daenerys turned back to the path and resumed walking.  Doreah took a few hesitant steps and then scuttled closer once his mother glanced at her and gestured forward with her fingers.

“He didn’t know anything about anything,” Daenerys added quietly after a long moment of just walking in silence.  It was not an apology, but Drogon felt it was the closest she could get.  Doreah bowed her head in acceptance and understanding at speaking out of turn and the khalasar continued to trek through the desert as Drogon felt his hunger grow.

Daenerys hummed thoughtfully as she brought Drogon into her cupped hands.  His tail curled around her tiny wrist as his wings fluttered uselessly in the air before he was finally able to balance properly.  His thumbs hooked around her fingers and he chirped at her curiously.  His orange eyes met her violet ones and for the first time he felt his mother’s presence press back against his own.  Patiently and with great care, Drogon pushed the thought of cooked meat once more to Daenerys, visualizing it as if it was actually in front of him.  He continued this way, using all of his senses to make her understand like a parent teaching a child to read.

He watched as his mother’s eyes fluttered closed and her nostrils flared as if she could actually smell the meat cooking upon the fire.  Drogon felt the idea being presented back to him in an inquisitive and wondering manner and Drogon trilled in reply, excitedly sending her praises and contentment along with his hunger.  Daenerys’ smiled, lips tilting in an amused and self-proud way as her violet eyes opened and gazed upon him with love and understanding.

She turned to Doreah, hair fluttering in the breeze and mouth parted to speak, but whatever command she was about to give was interrupted by a commotion at the front of the caravan.  Daenerys did not hesitate even as Doreah fluttered by the cages in a nervous manner.  She rushed forward, cupped hands raising to hurriedly push Drogon back onto his perch upon her pauldron.  Squawking, he flailed as he fought to keep his balance, claws leaving thin gauges in the leather.  He had finally just righted himself when he was nearly thrown off as Daenerys fell to her knees in the dirt next to Ser Jorah.

She reached forward with a shaky hand and placed it upon the fur of the horse’s cheek.  It was the same color as his mother’s hair.  Daenerys stroked gentle fingers down to the muzzle, her palm hovering over its nostrils to feel for air as she gazed at the unmoving belly of the mount.  The horse did not breathe.

“She was Drogo’s first gift to me,” his mother whispered, gaze fixed on the beast’s closed eyes as she slowly drew her hand away, clutching them tightly in her lap as if to keep them from shaking, or ripping something apart.  Drogon could feel her grief like a heavy thing, draped across her shoulders and trying to push her further into the ground.

Drogon sent his own sorrow back and tried to comfort her the best he could.  He did not know the mare, had no emotional connection to the beast, but his mother did and her pain made him grieve with her.  He could feel his brothers stir within their cages, but he only sent heavy thoughts of sleep back to them.  They settled back to rest quickly and Drogon pressed his head to his mother’s cheek and crooned in the silence that had descended.

Daenerys raised her hand that no longer shook and cupped his body close as she sent the feeling of gratitude to him.  The sound of shuffling feet drew them apart and he felt his mother take a deep breath to steel herself before her eyes darted to her khalasar that had surrounded them.  A few of the women muttering quietly about omens.  For a people who worshipped horses, having the Khaleesi’s own mount just drop dead was an ill one.  Drogon could hear the few quiet murmurings of the word _cursed_ and those that quickly shushed them.

“I promised to protect them,” her words were quiet but they were laced with an anger that Drogon could _feel_.  “I promised their enemies would die screaming.  How do I make starvation scream?”

“A trick I never learned, I’m afraid.” Jorah sighed, hand upon the dead mount’s shoulder more for supporting his balance while squatting as opposed to comfort.  He seemed detached from the situation, calm in a way Daenerys was not.

Drogon shuffled down her arm before he hopped upon the horse’s neck.  His mother glanced upon him but made no move to stop his progress so Drogon tucked his claws in and settled himself to wait.

“Does it ever end?” Daenerys questioned, eyes darting around the bleak and dry landscape that surrounded them before settling upon the comet.  Drogon’s head cocked as he followed her gaze.  The comet and its crimson tail showed brightly now, even in the day time.

“This is further east than I’ve ever been.  But, yes, Khaleesi, everything ends, even the red waste.”

Daenerys reached forward to stroke along the scales to either side of his spine and Drogon crooned as she turned back to Jorah, swiping at the loose strands of hair that fluttered into her face.  “And you’re sure there’s no other way?”

“If we go south to the land of the Lazarheen, the Lamb Men will kill us and take your dragons.  If we go west to the Dothraki Sea, the first khalasar we meet will kill us and take your dragons.” Jorah answered her honestly and Drogon could smell fear under his words.

Her eyes had drifted back to her dead mount, but at his words she turned back to Jorah, shoulders tense.  “No one will take my dragons!” Her words were sharp and her anger so hot Drogon shifted uncomfortably beneath the sensation.

Fear settled into his chest at the thought.  Drogon knew that he and his siblings were to young and small to do more than scratch and shriek at an assailant.  He shifted closer to his mother, letting her presence ease his discomfort.  She would never let them be taken, and Drogon found himself comforted by her absolute certainty that she would let no harm befall her children.

Jorah regarded her carefully for a moment, taking in her exhausted form, sun burnt face, and the slight bulge of extra fat she had yet to completely lose from her pregnancy.  “They are too weak to fight, as are your people,” he reminded her.  His mother’s violet eyes darted to those who had gathered around them but still kept a respectful distance.  “You must be their strength.”

“As you are mine,” Daenerys confessed softly and though Ser Jorah did not flinch nor avert his eyes, he reeked of guilt.  Her eyes fluttered back to the khalasar before she steeled herself and Drogon could feel her pushing her grief and anger away.  **_“Zhey qoy qoyi,”_** she called, forcing herself to stand even though Drogon could feel how she ached.  Three men separated from the others and approached her.

**_“Rakharo, Aggo, Kovarro,”_** Daenerys called them by name as they halted before her.  Her bloodriders, Drogon knew, those bound to protect her until either they or she died.  **_“Take the strongest of our remaining horses.  You will ride east,”_** she told Kovarro.  **_“You southeast, and you northeast.”_** Daenerys gestured to Aggo and Rakharo.

**_“What do we seek, Khaleesi?”_** Rakharo questioned.

Daenerys looked at her bloodriders, taking in their own dirtied and exhausted forms.  **_“Cities,”_** she replied after a long moment.  **_“Living or dead.  Caravans and people.  Rivers or lakes or the great salt sea.  Find how far the red waste extends before us and what lies on the other side.”_**

Rakharo called to the other two and they left to prepare the horses.  Drogon could hear his siblings cry out in annoyance as they were awoken when the cages were jostled while being removed from the horse.  The people around them began to murmur again as Daenerys joined Rakharo at his horse, leaving her child still perched upon the dead mount.

Ser Jorah glanced at him, black scales and orange eyes stared back.  The man shifted, hand falling subconsciously to the hilt of his sword.  Drogon knew he made the knight feel uneasy, he just did not know why.  Despite his discomfort, Ser Jorah stood guard over Drogon and the deceased horse while the khalasar began unpacking and setting up camp.

Daenerys returned to them slowly, the pounding of hooves on stone still echoing even as the riders faded from view in the distance.  She stood there a moment, arms crossed in a self-comforting gesture as she gazed at the silver.  Jorah shifted awkwardly before he took a halting step forward.  The movement seemed to draw his mother out of what ever stupor she had fallen into.

She gave Jorah a look of gratefulness before calling Irri and Doreah over as the other women started to set up the large pavilion like tent.  **_“Have a fire built,”_** Daenerys spoke in Dothraki.  Drogon’s understanding of the language came from his mother’s knowledge, but even he could tell she spoke it too softly.  Dothraki was a harsh language, with guttural stops and hard edges.  His mother was used to a finer language that seemed to roll off the tongue with ease.  When she tried to incorporate that rolling lilt into the rough and primitive language the words seemed not to quite fit.

**_“Khaleesi?”_** Irri questioned softly, the title spoken like it was being pulled from the back of her throat.

**_“For the horse,”_** Daenerys answered, trying to match the words with how she knew they should be pronounced and falling short.  She did not let it trouble her - if she was understood, then what did her accent matter.  **_“I want it cooked, good meat should not go to waste, especially since we have so little.  Have smaller chunks cut into little pieces, for the dragons.”_**

**_“The dragons, Khaleesi?”_** Doreah asked as Irri went to do as bid.

**_“Yes, I just remembered: only dragons and men eat cooked meat.”_ **

~ Page Break ~

Drogon slept for a day and a night.  By the time he awoke, seven more had been claimed by the red waste, the youngest a girl who had still been nursing at her mother’s breast.  There had not been enough horses that could willingly be lost and Daenerys had a single pyre built for all of them.  Of the two horses left, she chose the younger one that had gone lame from the harsh journey and it was burned with them.

In Dothraki culture only the warriors of someone held in the highest of esteem was burned with a horse.  Although no longer slaves, a khalasar would have still left them where they had perished and let the buzzards and other carrion feed upon their bodies.  Even though her people were lost in the waste and dying, those that remained felt a deep gratitude to their Khaleesi as she honored the deaths of even the lowest members of her khalasar.

Drogon had watched as his mother’s face twisted in rage even as he knew her heart bled in grief.  But she would not allow it to show - could not - refusing to let any weakness be seen by those who had followed her into this desolate land.  Rhaegal and Viserion began to warble as the fire rose high in the night sky, throwing up embers and ash brighter than even the stars.  Drogon found himself joining them, their voices rising in song as the red comet cast the moonless night in red.

The days passed slowly and even with Daenerys trying to keep them fed, the rations kept getting smaller at every meal.  Drogon and his brothers did not eat much, but even they were beginning to feel the effects.  Every few nights another pyre was built for those claimed by the red waste.  No horse burned with the dead.  Only one horse had survived their journey and though it was weak from hunger and dehydration, Daenerys forbade the others from slaughtering it.  If her bloodriders did not return, she knew they would need the meat.

Pyres were built, bodies burned, and his mother wept.  Daenerys would stand in the darkness, away from the others but still close enough to hear the popping of the wood and smell the scent of burning flesh.  When she cried for those lost she did so quietly, cuddling her children close and trying to muffle her sobs into their hides.

Viserion crooned at her, his scent changing to female as she bumped her head against their mother’s neck and jaw.  Rhaegal followed suit, Daenerys’ turmoil forcing them to shift into the less threatening gender to try and comfort her.  Their mother was incapable of understanding the effort her children made - even when Drogon tried to help her - but she could not interpret the information.  All the same, she was able to comprehend that the two smaller dragons had done _something_ to try and ease her suffering.  Daenerys cried harder but they could feel it was filled less with grief.

Ser Jorah stood guard outside and pretended not to hear.

Drogon found the old knight a curious being.  He knew that Jorah was fascinated by the dragons, but Drogon could also scent fear when the man was near them.  He never approached the hatchlings, never reached out to touch them as Doreah and a few others had done, but his fingers would twitch as another stroked their scales and he knew that the knight wanted to do so.  Drogon thought it was guilt that stopped him.  Guilt from what he did not know, but he knew that what ever it was that troubled Ser Jorah, it involved Daenerys.

When Ser Jorah looked at her and saw that all the baby fat had been eaten away by hunger, he reeked of guilt and shame.

Drogon liked the man who devoted himself to Daenerys, but he did not trust him.  There were few that Drogon did trust, his mother and siblings at the top of his very short list, and Irri a close second.  The Dothraki girl was a quiet thing, hands gentle as she fed them and voice always calm.  She too never reached out to touch them, instead she would open their cages and stand to the side, hand presented if they wished to be held, but unobtrusive if they did not.

Irri never pressured them for contact, but never denied Rhaegal or Viserion when they would crawl to her.  She touched them like they were delicate things made of glass, fingers ghosting over their hides so softly they could barely feel it.  Drogon only indulged her touch when Irri brought out the wire brush.  Her hands were gentle when she ran the coarse bristles over their hides, precise movements that expertly scratched away the molted scales.

Doreah was the opposite.  When she opened the cages she would shove her hands in, eager fingers scooping them up.  She tried to be careful, but her excitement made her careless.  Drogon and Rhaegal tolerated her naive handling, but Viserion did not.  Though the gold was the smallest of his siblings and Daenerys treated him as the youngest, he had a temper that matched his namesake.

Daenerys did not speak of her brother often, but when she did it was with mixed emotions.  Viserys had the unfortunate luck to have been born with the Targaryen curse of madness.  His madness had made him threaten and hurt his little sister and ultimately led to his death.  But he had not always been that way, Daenerys would tell them.  Once, he had been kind.  When she was little he used to take her to the market when they lived in the house with the red door.  He would buy her sweets, take her to the waterfront to watch the ships, and play hide-and-seek in the garden.  His madness progressed with his age.

“I was eight when he first hit me,” Daenerys had confessed to them late in the night while waiting for her bloodriders.  She would tell them stories of the people they were named after.  She would speak of Rhaegar, the brother she never met, Drogo, the husband she had loved, and Viserys, the brother who had gone mad.  “He told me I awoke the dragon…but he was no dragon,” she had whispered softly, voice laced with anger and sadness.  “Fire can’t kill a dragon.” The words were like a mantra.  She spoke them as if to remind herself that he was gone and could no longer hurt her.  She spoke them as if they could somehow bring him back.

Doreah no longer went near Viserion.  His temper had flared at her rough handling and he had snapped at her.  His tiny teeth, gums bleeding as they had yet to come all the way in, had caught the flesh between her finger and thumb.  Doreah had not bled much but their mother had fussed over the wound for hours, smearing a poultice upon it in apology.  Daenerys never did actually say the words, a queen would not admit to such a thing, but Drogon knew his mother was hurt over Viserion biting her handmaiden.

Daenerys was unsure how to punish Viserion, not because he was a dragon, but because she did not know the full series of events that led to the gold attacking Doreah and because Viserion was her child.  In the end she did not need to punish him at all as Drogon had stood over Viserion, chest puffed and domineering as he chastised the little dragon.  Viserion had cowered away from him, whining pitifully and shifting his gender.  It had been three days since then and she had yet to turn back.  Daenerys did not know what Drogon had done to cow his brother so, but both were uninjured and Viserion did not snap at anyone else so she let it be.

Doreah, on the other hand, did not handle the situation well at all.  She would glare at Viserion now, not that the gold seemed to notice, and Drogon realized that she was a spiteful thing.  When it came to feeding time she would always feed Viserion last…and sometimes when their mother and Irri were away or thoroughly distracted, she would feed him not at all.

Humans were fickle creatures.  His memories as Harry had taught him as much, but witnessing their pettiness first hand left Drogon feeling confused and bereft.  He liked Doreah, she was always eager to interact with him or Rhaegal, whispering fanciful stories and fairytales to them by the fire and telling them the histories of the world and gods, the sun and moon, and animals both real and not.

Her treatment of Viserion left him conflicted.  Unsure of what to do and how he felt, Drogon chose the company of Irri when his mother was unavailable, moving to the back of the cage and hissing when Doreah tried to retrieve him.  He warned her away with threats and posturing but he never attacked her, never hurt her.  It was unneeded, Viserion biting her had been enough of a warning and she would flinch away every time Drogon growled at her.  Her face would twist, emotion flicking across them so quickly that he had a hard time reading her.  Even so, he knew that she was hurt by his actions, but he would not be swayed.

Viserion meant more to him than the girl’s feelings.

Drogon’s sudden shift in behavior towards her handmaiden left his mother confused and suspicious.  Daenerys did not know what had caused him to shun Doreah and the most he could do to explain himself was to send her his feelings of displeasure.  But she must have understood more than he thought because one day Doreah stopped tending to them and no longer came near the cages.  He would see the girl gazing at them, face filled with longing, but she did not approach.

Once, it had seemed like her temptations had won and she had scuttled closer when nobody was looking.  Drogon was uncertain on what to do as she approached, hand stretched to touch them.  He hissed at her and even though she flinched, she did not back away.  Drogon did not want to hurt her, did not want her to be harmed, but he also would not let her near Viserion who had cowered behind him.  Rhaegal started to shriek in distress, Drogon’s aggression and Viserion’s fear causing him cry out for his mother.  The gold’s shrill voice joined the green’s and Drogon found himself crying as well.

Their screeching voices brought Daenerys into the pavilion and she needed to do no more than look at Doreah before the handmaiden had scuttled outside, hands shaking as she stepped past the Khaleesi.  They had exchanged words, but what was said Drogon did not know as he was too far away to hear.  What Daenerys had told Doreah seemed to have had a lasting impression though, for she never tried to approach them again and she even went out of her way to not be alone with them.  When Drogon did see Doreah, she looked properly cowed but her eyes burned with anger.

The wait for the riders was a long one.  Nearly a fortnight had passed before one of his mother’s qoy qoyi returned.  Aggo rode slowly into the camp, his horse dragging its hooves through the dirt leaving tiny trenches as its head hung low in exhaustion.  The rider did not look much better.  His hair had come loose from its tie and there was a layer of grime covering his skin, small rivulets of sweat leaving trails in their wake.

**_“Blood of my blood,”_** Daenerys had whispered and embraced him tightly once he had descended from the horse.  The words made Drogon’s chest feel tight as he recalled a curly brown haired female and the freckled face of a male.  He had crooned softly in a grief he did not fully understand and Daenerys had bundled him up from the rock he had been sun bathing on as she led Aggo into the open pavilion.

His mother cradled him to her chest and he had clung to her, tucking his head into her neck as his wings stretched from one of her shoulders to the other.  His thumb claws had dug into her soft skin, leaving scratches that welled up with blood but his mother seemed not to notice.  Daenerys had tried to comfort him, his distress making her uneasy as Aggo dropped gracelessly into the pillows and accepted one of the last full water skins from Irri.  He had run out of supplies long before he began his return journey and thirst caused him to drain it nearly empty before wisdom made him stop.

Daenerys gave him a sad smile and joined him on the pillows, ignoring how the dirt so easily transferred to the embroidered fabric.  She placed Drogon in her lap as Aggo told her of what he had seen.  He had ridden southeast for many days before he had come upon a city for the dead.

Only ghosts dwelled there now.

He spent two days searching amongst the ruins but he had found the wells dry, the trees barren and the land as desolate as the waste.  At night, the wind blew through the shattered windows and broken doors, echoing through the dead city and howling like a thousand wailing ghosts.

“It is not a good place, Khaleesi,” he told her softly, words stuttered as he spoke them in the common tongue.  He spoke the language so as to get his meaning across, the gravity of his sentence heavy.

Daenerys bowed her head in despair as she laid a gentle hand upon Aggo’s arm and ordered him to rest.  She left him to join Ser Jorah, giving her Khalasar a sad smile.  Some of the women had begun to gather the supplies in the tent but Daenerys just shook her head and her people settled back into the cliff side to wait.

She found Jorah at the edge of the camp staring out into the vast desert, eyes squinting from the sun.  Dirt had settled into what seemed like every pore in his face except for the crow lines on either side of his eyes.  He glanced curiously at her as she approached, the tiny black dragon clinging to her like its life depended upon it, but he said nothing.

Drogon appreciated his tact as he knew he was being unreasonable, but that did not stop him from crying loudly in distress and clinging tighter when his mother tried to shift him to her pauldron.  They both winced from the racket he was making, talons gripping into the leather covering her stomach and Daenerys immediately stopped trying to move him.  In the distance, his siblings answered his cry with a shriek of their own that echoed down the canyon wall.

“What’s got him all worked up?” Ser Jorah asked as his glare sent the curious Dothraki back to their tasks.

“I am unsure,” Daenerys confessed as she hushed Drogon quietly.  She cupped her hands around his small form, one patting his back while the other supported his weight, and she bounced him slightly while twisting and rocking from side to side.  Daenerys comforted him like a mother would their newborn child and Drogon was only a little ashamed that it worked.

They stood together in the quiet for a long time, Daenerys comforting the dragon and Jorah standing as her sentinel, keeping the others away.  Only after the sun had begun to cast long shadows did his mother finally break it.  “Aggo has returned.” Her tone was benign, lacking any feeling as if she were speaking about the weather.

“I saw,” Jorah’s blue eyes trailed to what was left of the khalasar.  The women and children preparing the last of their rations, the men patrolling or resting in what little shade they could find.  Nothing was packed away and nobody was making any motion to do so.  “He did not return with good news, I take it.”

Daenerys just shook her head, silver white wisps of her hair sticking to her sweat soaked skin.  She did not elaborate and Jorah did not ask.  They went their separate ways as night began to fall and though his mother let him sleep with her, his rest was fitful.  He dreamt of a living castle in ruins and the loss of his bushy haired and freckled companions.  When he awoke, his chest ached.  Even though it seemed to be in perfectly good working order, his heart felt broken.

He knew his grief and distress were leaking not only into his siblings but his mother as well as he caught her looking melancholy more than once and he knew that it could not continue.  He forced the feelings away until he was sure they were buried and he felt nothing and vowed to return to them when he had more control and his darker emotions would not affect his family.

By the time he was certain that the broken and faded memories of _them_ were gone, another rider returned and Irri’s wail of despair awoke Drogon from his sleep.  Caged as he was, he could not see what had caused her distress, but even from a distance he could smell the blood.  Rakharo’s name passed Daenerys’ lips in a voice tight with rage and all her children grieved with her as another pyre was built and the returned horse - decorated red in paint and blood - was slain and placed by the severed head.

Irri and Doreah clung to each other as Rakharo joined his ancestors.  Daenerys stood alone, her dragons cradled in the curve of her arms, and Jorah slightly behind where he remained even when all the others had returned to their bedrolls and the fire died out leaving hot coals in its wake.  “He stood up to Viserys for me,” she whispered as she gazed at the ashes.

“Khaleesi?” Jorah questioned, shifting closer to her but not closing the distance completely.  It was not his place to stand beside her - that honor had been Drogo’s alone - and though he wished otherwise, Jorah knew that no other would take his place…not even himself.

“When Viserys came after me in the grass.  Rakharo took his whip and wrapped it around my brother’s throat to get him away from me,” her words were stilted, like she was forcing them out through clenched teeth.  “He was the first person in my life that ever protected me from my brother’s madness.”

Ser Jorah bowed his head, hand on the hilt of his sword, giving away his unease.  “I am sorry, Khaleesi.  I know what he meant to you.”

Daenerys pulled her eyes away from the fire and met his gaze.  “Do you?” She asked softly.  She did not expect an answer and Jorah did not give her one.  He just stood with her in the dying light as she looked back to the charred bones.  Only once the smoke had turned into but a thin trail did Daenerys turn away.  Her eyes were dry but her grief plain for all to see, even in the dark.  Jorah watched her go, face twisted with conflict.  He wanted to take the sorrow from her, but knew of no way to do so.

Drogon felt a sense of empathy for the man as his mother’s anguish washed through him.  Only time could heal this sort of wound.  So Drogon did the only thing he could, he clung to her.  He wrapped his tiny body around her neck and crooned a sorrowful note as she cradled his siblings in her arms.  Daenerys did not place them in their cages that night nor the one following.

The days continued to pass and with it his mother’s rage grew.  She and Jorah spoke many times about which Khal had been the one to kill her loyal and trusted friend in such a cruel and disgraceful way.  Though her rage was fueled that was the only thing that was.  Her khalasar was withering away into nothing.  They had run out of food days ago.  The women had taken to boiling the leather saddles no longer in use but not even that would last.  Most of the khalasar had abandoned doing more than laying in what little shade they could find.

Just past sunrise the next morning there salvation arrived.  Kovarro returned on a horse that he had not left on.  Drogon was awoken as camp was being broken down.  The khalasar moved with a single minded purpose, excitement and energy in every step they took.  Three full water skins were passed between greedy hands and two of them were fully drained before they had even begun their journey.

Aggo and Jorah secured the dragon cages on the back of the black horse the knight had leant to the bloodrider.  Its steps were slow and jarring, the gelding plodding its hooves down and lifting them as if it took a great deal of effort, but like the rest of the khalasar, it pushed through the exhaustion and kept walking.  The promise of food and more water kept even the weakest of humans moving.

The other two horses were burdened with as much of the supplies as they could carry.  Much had been left behind, including the bones of the dead.

They journeyed through the red waste for days, only stopping to rest when the sun was highest in the sky.  Kovarro led them with sure feet to the city that he called Qarth.  The closer they got, the more uneasy Ser Jorah seemed.  Daenerys could see his trepidation with ease, but she did not let his mood put a damper on her own, though Drogon could sense her conflict.  She was wary but she also had hope.  Not even the whispers of the garden of bones could sway her.

Ser Jorah’s mood caught like fire despite Daenerys’ disposition.  The closer they got to the fabled gates the more restless the khalasar became.  Drogon and his brothers could even sense it in their sleep.  Though he too had hope, Drogon pressed caution to his mother.  They were a desperate group with nowhere else to go, and the Qarthians already knew this, if their boon of water and food was any indication.

They gave the khalasar just enough to reach their gates and no more.  Drogon wondered what they would ask of his mother in return to gain entry and if she could afford to give it.  The situation did not sit well with him…but they had only one other option: to lay down and die.

The khalasar continued its march towards the city of Qarth and the red comet burned brightly in the sky.

~ Page Break ~

Drogon was already awake by the time the horns had sounded and the group halted a hundred meters from the extravagantly designed and heavily fortified gate.  He pulled himself to the edge of the cage to peer through the gap, but his mother had had the cages replaced the night before last.  Irri and Doreah had taken their old cages apart and cobbled together three larger cages from what little supplies they had left.

There was no complaint about the size, he and his brothers had been outgrowing their old cages, but now he could stretch his wings out completely and they would not touch either side.  He appreciated the extra space, but Daenerys had ordered larger hides to be made for their walls.  The hides had been stitched together from the many smaller pieces of their original cages and the scraps from the saddles that had not been boiled down for food.  They were tied together to seal any gaps.  The tiny cracks that were between wood and leather were too small to see out of unless he wished to view the ground or sky.

He growled in annoyance but kept his voice nearly silent.  Drogon knew that his mother had not done so to keep them imprisoned, but instead to protect them.  And from the sound of the marching footsteps that echoed loudly in the quiet that had descended upon the khalasar, he thought that perhaps she had made a wise choice.

“I thought we were welcomed,” Daenerys whispered, her voice easily carried to his enclosure.  The day was hot, the scorching sun’s heat competing with the blazing sand.  The wind was nonexistent and sound traveled easily in the still air.

“If you heard a Dothraki horde was approaching your city, you might do the same, Khaleesi.” Jorah’s tone was decisive, filled with confidence even as Drogon could hear the creak of leather and the clicking of metal.

Jorah Mormont wore his armor.

Unease began to settle over Drogon and he chuffed quietly to warn his brothers.  They were too small to fight, but they could fly if they had need of it.  Their wings may have been too weak to take them far, but if they were quick and luck was on their side, perhaps it would be enough.

Irri stood next to the cages and Aggo held the reins of the horse.  If a fight happened to break out, Irri had been ordered to open the cages and free them as Aggo covered their escape.  Drogon did not like the plan but his mother would not be swayed.  She had already lost one child and she refused to lose any more.

“To the sea,” she had told them.  “If the cage doors open, you are to fly to the sea and not look back.  If I live I _will_ find you, but do not wait for me.”

So to the sea they would fly even though every part of him rebelled at the thought of leaving his mother.  But he would obey and he prayed that it would not come to that.  Drogon did not particularly believe in a god, or any god at all really, but he prayed all the same.

“Horde?” Daenerys questioned incredulously.  Drogon had to agree.  They numbered less than thirty and that included the Dothraki children.  Of those left only seven were blooded fighters, the rest young boys who had yet to earn even a single braid.

He had heard the others speak of the time before he and his siblings had been hatched.  They spoke of a khalasar with forty-thousand warriors that his mother had been Khaleesi of before her Khal had died.  That was a true horde.  What was left of the khalasar were stragglers…desperate people who had followed a desperate woman.

“My name is Daenerys-”

“Daenerys Stormborn,” a cultured and smug voice interrupted her.  Drogon could scent his mothers’ unease in the near still wind.  “Of the House Targaryen.”

“You know of me, my lord?” Her voice was strong, though it still trembled over the courteous title.  The man had thrown her, his sudden disrespect baffling to one who had grown up as she.  Lords and ladies would greet her as an equal, bowing to her brother and presenting themselves as Targaryen supporters.  Those that did not still went through the motions of societal niceties, hiding their distaste behind smiles and courteous words laced with darker intent.

This immediate disregard of her was mystifying, and it left her feeling confused on how to continue.  Drogon could feel her whirling emotions as she fought for even ground, mind darting from one statement to the next wondering what to say and how to say it.  He could not help but think that that had been the man’s intention, and Drogon found himself shifting restlessly in his cage.  This was not a good sign at all.

“Only by reputation, Khaleesi,” he spoke to her with thinly disguised contempt.  He did not even attempt to pronounce her title with anything other than the barest of efforts.  Drogon found himself puffing up at the slight and his chest rumbled with a near silent growl for all the good it did him.  The humans could not see him behind his sheltered cage, and even if they could, he was a rather unimpressive sight.  “And I am no lord, merely a humble merchant…they call you the Mother of Dragons,” his tone went from barely polite to outright mocking.

The merchant said ‘Mother of Dragons’ as if he thought she was either a liar or insane.  Drogon knew the man was trying to get a rise out of his mother, but to what purpose he could not tell.

“And what should I call you?” Daenerys’ tone had not changed and she showed no sign of having noticed the merchant’s disrespect. Drogon could feel her anger though, simmering low but gaining heat.  He feared for when it boiled over.  His mother had a hot temper, and he worried that if she let her anger get the best of her she would no longer see reason.  In a situation such as this, it could get them all killed, either from the guards or from the gates closing upon them.

“Oh, my name is quite long and quite impossible for foreigners to pronounce,” there was laughter in the merchant’s tone and Drogon bristled at the insult.  The man thought Daenerys too young and dimwitted to give his name.  Daenerys’ anger grew.  “I am simply a trader of spices.”

Drogon breathed deeply, trying to catch the man’s scent but it was hidden beneath a thick layer of perfume.  It made his nose wrinkle in disgust.  The merchant spoke with what could have been amusement, but the tiny dragon could hear something darker behind the words.  It made his teeth ache as he clenched in jaw in anxiety.

“We are the Thirteen.” Drogon could hear the rustle and slide of fabric.  It sounded like silk.  “Charged with the governance and protection of Qarth, the greatest city that ever was or will be.”

“The beauty of Quarth is legendary-”

_“Qarth,”_ the spice merchant interrupted her again and Drogon listened with trepidation as his mother stumbled over the pronunciation, her scent starting to shift from uncertainty to hostile.  “Might we see the dragons?”

Daenerys went still and Drogon froze with her.  He could practically feel all the eyes on their cages and he finally understood why their mother insisted upon new ones.  Aside from the khalasar no one knew how small and vulnerable they all were.  The cages made it appear as if what was held inside was much larger…at least three times the size of what they were now.

His mother was in a tight spot, an impossible decision versus an impossible choice.  If she opened the cages and presented even the largest of her dragons, the Thirteen would see just how young and defenseless they were.  The foot soldiers they had brought as their guards were more than enough to kill the weak and exhausted khalasar and seize the dragons.  If she refused to present them then they could declare her a liar, bar the gates, and her khalasar’s bones would add to the garden.

_‘Tread carefully, little mother,’_ Drogon cautioned.  He felt Daenerys reign in her anger and take a breath to calm herself.

“Do you take me for a fool, spice merchant?” She asked, voice laced with the mocking tone that the man had been using since their arrival.

“Forgive me, Mother of Dragons,” the way he spoke had Drogon bristling even as he hissed at his brothers to keep them quiet.  Their reactions made him realize that his siblings understood more than he had originally thought.  He was unsure if they were responding to the words themselves or their mother’s emotions, but all the same they wished to defend her.  He clicked and warbled a comforting purr to calm them and after a moment he could hear them settling once more as their rumblings and growls faded into nothing. 

“No man alive has seen a living dragon,” he continued after a moment, voice sliding into a deeper tone, greed darkening it.  “Some of my more skeptical friends refuse to believe your _children_ exist,” he taunted her with his words, speaking to her as if she were a small child with limited understanding.  “All we ask is a chance to see for ourselves.”

Drogon shifted in anxiety, easily reading the true intention behind his request.  When he had been Harry, there were many that said one thing but meant another in order to gain control of him.  Harry had become quite proficient in reading the true objective behind one’s words, and the skill had not left him through the ages.

The spice merchant not only wished to see if the dragons were real, but he also wanted to gage their worth.  The man wanted to see if the benefits of attacking what was left of their horde to lay claim to three _dragons_ was greater than the risk.  The size of the cages dissuaded him, implying that the creatures within were perhaps too large to subdue.  But if Daenerys opened their cages to be inspected by the Thirteen, the perfumed men would see that was not the case and then they would all be in danger. 

Drogon could feel his mother’s anger rising, but underneath that was the sickly scent of fear.  He knew she could feel his own fear as he could hers, and that seemed to calm her some.  It was not just her own life that she held in her hands, but that of her children and her khalasar.  She knew she must choose her words carefully or the consequences could lead to their death.

“I assure you, _Spice Merchant_ ,” Daenerys spoke his title as he had hers, disdain dripping from every syllable.  “I am not a liar, my children are quite real.”

“Oh, I don’t think you are,” he seemed almost surprised at her declaration, the words uttered quietly as if in afterthought.  His tone, however, contradicted his statement.  “But as I’ve never met you before, my opinion on the matter is of limited value.”

A cold anger simmered over their bond, whether it was his own or his mother’s he was unsure, but Drogon found himself reacting purely on instinct without a thought for the consequences of revealing himself.  He shrieked loudly in outrage, throat warbling as deeply as he could make it as his brothers joined him in his cry.  The horse startled beneath them and he could hear Aggo fighting to calm the gelding as it snorted and stomped its hooves.  Irri’s soft voice drowned out the anxious shifting of the Thirteen and their guards as she tried to comfort them, hand pressed to the wall of his cage.

The scent of fear saturated the air around the perfumed men and Drogon’s tail flicked in satisfaction as he realized it did not come from the khalasar.  He had not planned to draw attention to him and his brothers, but now that he had, he hoped they had sounded properly menacing.  Rhaegal and Viserion allowed Irri’s words to calm them, but Drogon only settled after Daenerys sent him her desire for him to be quiet.  He would have worried about displeasing her, but he could feel her amusement travel through the bond along with the command.

The silence that had descended upon the two groups was nearly palpable before Daenerys broke it.  “Once I have seen my people fed, you and your _friends_ may gaze upon them all you like,” she spoke as if she would be granting them a great honor but her tone was contemptuous, imitating the spice merchant’s own smug voice before it turned into hard steel.  “But not before.”

“You are in no position to make demands,” the man’s voice held steady, but only just.  Rage was concealed beneath barely controlled propriety.  “Well, I suppose that settles it then.”  Drogon could hear him retreating, silk slippers with leather soles shuffling softly upon the hard packed dirt.  The guards stepped aside to let only the merchant pass, moving in synchronicity to cover the gap.

“What are you doing?” Daenerys’ lighter footsteps followed him for several paces.  The little dragon heard Jorah shadowing her and the creak of wood as the guards gripped their spears tighter.  “You promised to receive me.”

“We _have_ received you,” the merchant turned back to her, speaking to her as one would a dimwitted child.  “Here we are, and here you are.” Drogon cursed his tiny form and inability to breathe fire as the sudden urge to eat the man overcame him.

“And you deny me entry?” Daenerys demanded to know, tone stern and unyielding.

The spice merchant sighed in annoyance, his confidence bolstered by the guards standing between him and the people he considered to be savages.  “Qarth did not become the greatest city that ever was or will be by letting _Dothraki_ savages through its gates!” He seemed to almost spit the word as if uttering it had somehow dirtied him.

He could hear Jorah’s voice pleading softly to his mother, but Drogon could scent her rage and knew she would not be cowed or made to see reason.  Her anger was nearly a tangible thing, settling on his tongue like a spice and making the back of his throat itch.  His siblings stood to attention in their cages as Daenerys marched even closer to the armed guards.

“Thirteen!” Her voice rang out harshly, dropping all others into silence.  “When my dragons are grown, we will take back what was stolen from me and destroy those who have wronged me!  We will lay waste to armies and burn cities to the ground!  Turn us away and you will burn first.” Daenerys’ tone turned cold and quiet, but easily heard by all in the silence that followed her words.

“And if we let you in, your dragons _will_ grow.  What assurances do we have then that you will not turn your dragons on Qarth?  You’re _word_?” He laughed at her and Drogon could hear the others join him in his amusement.  “What is your word worth to us?  Nothing, I’ll tell you.  Less than nothing!  You are no more than a beggar queen who cannot back up what you say.” Righteous anger seeped from his every pore and Drogon could hear the man’s weak heart racing.

“No,” he continued after a moment to catch his breath.  With the way his lungs puffed and his heart labored Drogon knew the man to be grossly unfit.  “I’ll tell you what will happen if we close the gates to you and your _people_.  The nearest city is a fortnight away on horse, longer still on foot.  You and your savages will die long before reaching it, and your dragons with.  They will burn no cities and lay waste to no armies!  And so-”

“Retreating in fear from a little girl is unbecoming of the greatest city that ever was or will be,” a deep voice cut in and Drogon could scent the spice merchant’s annoyance.

“The discussion is over, _Xaro Xhoan Daxos_.  The Thirteen have spoken!” He said the name like one would an insult or curse.

“I am one of the Thirteen and I am still speaking,” Xaro Xhoan Daxos replied, voice sure and confident.  Drogon thought his name was needlessly long but it seemed to roll off of the human’s tongue in an elegant manner.

“The girl threatens to burn our city to the ground and you would invite her in for a cup of _wine_?” The merchant did not use her titles nor her name.  He did not even have the decency to call her a woman for that was what she was.  He called her ‘girl’, as if she was no more than a child who knew nothing of the ways of the world.  Drogon felt it was only the presence of Jorah and the guards that stopped his mother from killing the man.

“She is the Mother of Dragons.  Do you expect her to watch her people starve without breathing fire?” Xaro asked, his calm tone in contrast to the spice merchant’s agitated one.  “I believe we can let a few Dothraki through our gates without dooming our city.  After all, here I am, a savage from the Summer Isles, and Qarth still stands.”

“Our decision is final,” the merchant’s smug voice broke the silence that had settled over the two groups.

“Very well, I invoke _Soumai_ ,” Drogon heard the slide of metal as a blade left its sheath.  The smell of blood startled him at first, but he could only scent a little bit of it.  Barely a flesh wound, little more than a scratch.  “I will vouch for her, her people, and her dragons in accordance with the law.”

_Soumai_ sounded like a blood oath of some sort.  Blood oaths were not unfamiliar to him - when he used to be Harry.  He did not believe that it was as binding as it had been with his own people as he could not taste the magic in the air signaling the oath had been sealed that way.  This blood oath seemed more of the sort that was bound upon honor, not magic.  Drogon thought it was rather useless without the magic to inforce it…after all, what was the honor of men truly worth.

“Be it on your head,” the words sounded bitter and tone sharp, but Drogon could fell his mother’s relief and he allowed himself to settle back down to rest.

“Welcome to Qarth, my lady,” Xaro intoned as the gates opened and the tiny khalasar entered the city.  Drogon could smell the salt in the air from the ocean and hear the bustle from the markets as Xaro led them to his estate.  He wondered if his mother would take him and his brothers to see the city, but he doubted it.  They were still too vulnerable, even with the strange man’s protection.  Perhaps when they were older.

“Well, that could have gone better.” Daenerys spoke softly to Jorah so as not to be overheard.  Although relieved to have been given access to the city, she still smelled of unease and Drogon could feel her anxiety.

“I thought you handled that quite well.” Jorah replied after a moment.

“My anger nearly got us killed,” she snapped back, her agitation pulling Drogon from the doze.

“You will learn, Khaleesi,” Jorah assured her, voice certain and confident.

Drogon would make sure of it.


	2. Sansa

The day was unbearably hot even under the canopy.  Though not yet high noon, the sun was sweltering and Sansa wondered how the combatants could stand it underneath all of that armor.  She could feel the sweat trickling down her back and sticking to the thin cotton dress the queen had gifted to her.  It was a pale pink and the material was certainly more appropriate than the thicker wool that her northern clothes were made from, but the gift had not been given from the generosity of Cersei.

Sansa had already grown out of all the clothes she had brought with her from Winterfell.  Instead of allowing her to hem them to size from the extra cloth she had packed, the queen had taken them all when her quarters had been searched.  The guards had even taken the fur cloak her mother had tailored for her on her last name day, though it still fit.

The guards had taken much out of her room that day and she had been left with very little.  They had even appropriated the letters that she had been writing to her family, and those that had been written to her.  The half written letter to her half brother, Jon, which she had rewritten nearly a dozen times was carelessly tossed into a crate with her other belongings.  She had not known what to say to him, the bastard brother that she hardly even knew, but she was compelled to write to him all the same.  The quill had touched parchment and the words did not come.  After months in the capital she simply kept adding a sentence here and there until she had something resembling a letter.  Now it would never be sent, and Jon would never receive it.  He probably thought she had forgotten him once he left for the Wall.

The queen had let her write one letter to her brother Robb, but the words were not hers.  She knew then that she was a prisoner, locked in her chamber, everything she owned confiscated to be sorted through and most likely burned.

The guards had not taken the doll her father had given her though, thinking it was a gift from the princess, Myrcella.  Sansa slept with it every night, trying to remember his voice and the feel of his beard on her cheek when he kissed her goodnight.  Sometimes, if she squeezed her eyes tightly enough, she could almost pretend he was still there and was just late to tuck her into bed.  He had not done that in nearly a year, after she had complained that she was much too old for such childish acts...she wished for anything that he would have done it just one more time.

The wardrobe of dresses the queen had presented her with as she had grown taller at first looked to be a fine gift, but Sansa had seen something sinister in the woman’s smile.  The northern girl had said her courtesies and expressed her gratitude, but later she had cried in the privacy of her room as she realized that none of the gowns fit her.  They were too loose at the chest, plunging to show the cleavage that was not there and accentuating her childish look.

They made her look foolish, a little girl wearing her mother’s clothing.

When Sansa had presented herself to court the next day, she forced herself to be ice like winter as the other ladies laughed at her appearance.  The queen had just smiled down at her from her chair next to the throne, a satisfied tilt to her chin as Joffrey openly guffawed at her ill fitted clothing, calling her gangly beast.  She had not cried, but her eyes were shining wetly as she was excused from the king’s presence.

That night she had dreamt of flying.  Her wings beat powerfully in the warm air as the desert rocks disappeared beneath her.  Sansa had awoken feeling free, and for a few seconds she had forgotten of the cage she had been placed in.  When her handmaidens entered the room, the world crashed back down upon her and she nearly wept from the feeling of injustice it brought. 

But that morning when she had awoken from the dream, _something_ had changed.

A comet burned brightly in the sky and there was ice in her veins.  Sansa had looked upon her handmaidens and seen their smiles and heard their spoken words but all she saw were lies.  She dismissed them carelessly, waving them to the door when the lies became too much to stomach and she knew that they were leaving to report back to the queen.  For a moment Sansa had believed that these women who tittered and cooed at her were her friends, but that morning she saw the truth in their words and a hard stillness settled into her heart.

The queen and her son had taken everything from her.  She was the last northerner in all of King’s Landing if rumor was to be believed.  The servants whispered about the lost Stark girl and Sansa prayed every day in the godswood for Arya’s safety.  She hoped that her sister made it home or at least somewhere safe and out of King’s Landing.  The capital was a nest of vipers that spoke sweet coiling lies and she had been foolish enough to listen to their words.  Her father had paid the price of her ignorance, but she would not fall into the trap again.

Sansa was a wolf alone in the world and the lions were hungry.  She must play the tune and dance to their song if she was to get out alive.

The crowd around her cheered as the Hound struck the other armored man with his mace and his opponent fell off the wall and into the courtyard.  He did not move and Joffrey’s joy soared as the most likely dead man was dragged away, a trail of blood in his wake.  The king stood at the edge, one foot raised upon the lip of the wall and Sansa was tempted just as she was that day when Joffrey took her to see her father’s head to push him off and watch him plunge into the unforgiving stone below.

Instead she gripped at the handkerchief hidden in her sleeve.

The Hound had been right, of course.  She had needed the cloth more often than she had thought.  Joffrey found any excuse he could to have one of his gold cloaks strike her, her face still stung from the blow of the gauntlet upon her cheek from earlier.  The king was displeased with how she had looked upon him.

She washed the handkerchief every night, but blood was hard to wash out.

Sansa had become quite adept at navigating the shark infested waters that was the capital.  She tried to limit Joffrey’s excuses to have her disciplined by dressing herself in his mother’s gowns, fashioning her hair in the southron style, and appearing dutiful as one would betrothed to a king.  Joffrey just found more reasons to have her struck, making up the most absurd excuses that even the court had a hard time stomaching.  They would shift awkwardly in the background like timid deer but not one spoke out against the king’s blatant abuse.

_By what right do the sheep speak out for the wolf?_ Sansa thought as Joffrey turned to her, vicious smile upon worm lips.  _By no right at all, replied the lion._

No one here would save her, there were no knights in shining armor or gallant warriors coming to rescue the fair lady.  Her brother would not breach the gates of King’s Landing for a long while if not at all and there was no one to rescue her.  She was alone, truly for the first time in all her life.  If she wanted to be saved, she would have to do it herself.  But first she would need to survive _him_.

“Did you like that?” Joffrey asked her, moving back under the shade of the canvas roof that had been erected upon the platform so the king could sit in some comfort.

“It was well struck, your grace,” Sansa replied.  Her voice lacked any inflection and her gaze never left the courtyard as a boy started to scrub away at the blood.  She saw Joffrey’s face twist into something sinister out of the corner of her eye and she forced herself to be still.  To show weakness was nearly as dangerous as displaying rebellion.  It was best to be nothing at all when it concerned the king, become ice and be nothing until he lost interest.

“I already said it was well struck,” he spoke to her as if she was a stupid child.

“Yes, your grace,” Sansa replied as if she was one.  Just as she had predicted, Joffrey lost all interest in her and turned back to the awaiting entertainment.  After a moment, she felt her chest loosen in relief and allowed herself to breathe as he called for the next fighters.  Sandor Clegane moved to his position next to the two younger Baratheon’s and Sansa saw them shift in their seats.

They appeared relieved when their brother’s attention was turned back to the fighting.  Sansa knew that she was not the only one that Joffrey enjoyed tormenting, but she was certainly the easiest.  Tommen’s eyes were still red rimmed from when Joffrey’s actions after the coronation.  He had given his little brother the cat that Tommen had taken to keeping into his room.  The cat was placed upon a silver platter, cooked and served to the prince after dinner.

The queen had been furious with her eldest son, but had done nothing as Joffrey laughed and Tommen ran crying from the room.  The king had mocked his brother’s weakness, and Cersei had excused Myrcella and Sansa from the private dinner.  Joffrey had stopped Sansa before she could reach the safety of the hallway when he realized that they had meant to leave.  For a moment Sansa truly believed that Joffrey would have her eat the cat, but Cersei had put an end to his antics…if barely.  She was losing control of her son and that thought terrified her.

Sansa knew the queen held no love for her or the Stark family, but she also knew that Cersei would never let any real harm come to her while she was still useful.  Since her brother had called the banners, Sansa was safe in the knowledge that even though she was a hostage she was a valuable one.  Only when she stopped being valuable would she truly fear for her life.

Even as a prized hostage, Joffrey took liberties that the queen had no interest in stopping.  The north had Ser Jaime as a hostage, she knew this because the day that King’s Landing had received word of his capture, Joffrey had her brought before court and Ser Meryn Trant had struck her with the flat of his blade until she bled from the welts even through the fabric of her gown and corset.

She had screamed that day, barely a month ago, and loudly.  Sansa had prayed that her cries would inspire the empathy of those who watched, but the watchers continued to simply do as they always had which was nothing.  Cersei had sat upon her smaller throne, staring at her with chilled green eyes, and it was then that Sansa knew that the woman who called herself the queen hated her.  She did not understand where the blonde monarch’s hatred had come from, but it was there, plain to see as Joffrey had her beaten before his court.

Sandor Clegane had had to carry her to her room, too weak as she was from the pain.  Maester Pycelle came later, with his poultices, salves, and wandering hands.  Sansa was furious at his careless handling of her bare skin, but she held her tongue as he applied what was needed and left.  She knew that ultimately the maester was not there for her.  He served at the leisure of the queen and Sansa would find no sympathy from him.

“Ser Dontos the Red of House Hollard!” The announcer shouted as Joffrey shifted in annoyance.  Sansa turned her gaze carefully to the king’s back.  An annoyed Joffrey was a dangerous one, and it usually meant trouble for her.

“Here I am,” a voice replied to her left and she turned as an overweight man stumbled down the steps, chasing the helmet he had dropped as he fumbled for his weapons.  “Sorry, your grace,” he slurred as he turned his helmet the right way around.  “My deepest apologies.”

“Are you drunk?” Joffrey questioned and Sansa was careful not to look at him.  She recognized his tone, bordering interested but laced with dark intentions.  Sansa held herself still like a deer hoping to blend into the background near a predator.  If she moved, his attention would be drawn to her.

“No…uh, no, your grace,” Ser Dontos replied, removing his helmet in a belated manner as he bowed to his king.  “I had - I had two cups of wine.”

She saw the lie as the words left his lips, painting the air dull pink as Joffrey questioned the man.  “That’s not much at all,” the boy king said, tone mocking as he gestured to the casket at the base of the platform.  “Please, have another cup.” Sansa turned her gaze slowly to the king, her eyes riveted upon the monster that stood before her.

Ser Dontos shifted uncomfortably.  The man may have been drunk but he was not stupid.  He knew that the king had no good intentions with his statement, and yet there was no way that he could be refused.  “Are you sure, your grace?”

“Yes, to celebrate my name day,” his smile turned sinister, two tiny pink lines baring white teeth.  “Have two, have as many as you like.”

“I would be honored, your grace,” Ser Dontos replied because that was all he could do as he bowed to his king.

“Ser Meryn,” Joffrey turned to the knight who stood next to his bride-to-be, beady eyes turning dark in anticipation.  “Help Ser Dontos celebrate my name day.  See that he drinks his fill.”

Two other knights seized the drunk man as Ser Meryn dragged the barrel over to them.  For a moment Ser Dontos looked surprised as if he did not understand, but then he began to struggle.  He was forced to his knees, the sound of the metal of his armor striking stone had Sansa wincing as the crowd began to shift in unease.  Sansa did not see where the horn was pulled from, but she could hear the drunk knight gagging as it was forced down his throat and the gurgle that was choked from him as the gold cloaks began to pour the wine.

Joffrey had already turned away, throwing himself into his makeshift thrown in boredom as he gestured to the announcer to call the next fighters.  Sansa though, could not drag her eyes away and she watched in horror as Ser Dontos the Red choked and gagged and struggled as he was forcefully drowned.

“You can’t!” Sansa cried, the words leaving her before her mind could tell her to be quiet.  She could feel Joffrey’s attention turn to her and she clenched her hands upon the cotton fabric in her lap as she thought frantically upon what to do next.

“What did you say?” Joffrey asked softly and Sansa turned to him slowly, afraid that any sudden movements would give away her fear.  “Did you say I can’t?”

“I only meant…” she paused, licking her suddenly dry lips as her heart raced within her chest.  “It would be bad luck to kill a man on you name day.” Sansa pulled the lie from the air like she had seen Cersei do a thousand times, eyes carefully shuttered so the king could not see her falsehood.

“What kind of stupid peasant’s superstition…” Joffrey trailed off, mocking voice filled with annoyance as he turned back to the drowning man.

“The girl is right,” the Hound spoke and Sansa had never been more relieved to hear his voice, even though his words were also the dull pink of a harmless lie.  “What a man sows on his name day, he reaps all year.”

Joffrey sighed in what she thought was acceptance as he waved dismissively at Ser Meryn.  “Take him away,” the words sounded disappointed.  “I’ll have him killed tomorrow, the fool.”

Sansa could hear Ser Dontos retching, the echoing splat of liquid hitting the stone floor with force, and the smell of acidic wine as he vomited it up, but she did not turn to look.  Her gaze was fixed on Joffrey instead and she felt her heart become still as ice as courage flooded her veins.  She had succeeded in saving the man from drowning, why could she not save him all together.

“You’re right, he is a fool,” Sansa spoke carefully, fluttering her eyes prettily when Joffrey turned his attention to her.  She tilted her head to expose the column of her neck like she had seen the queen do when she was trying to persuade the old king to her view.  Like she had seen that night when Cersei had convinced King Robert to execute her direwolf, Lady.

“You’re so clever to see it.  He’ll make a much better fool than a knight,” she spoke softly, smiling almost coyly as Joffrey laughed at the man who was still retching upon the floor.  “He doesn’t deserve the mercy of a quick death,” Sansa added as Joffrey turned to her.  His eyes swept her from head to toes as if he could not quite account for what he was seeing and she turned away from him disinterestedly, pretending that Ser Dontos struggling to his feet had pulled her attention.  In truth she could feel her mask slipping and Sansa knew that if she looked at him for a second longer, he would see her fear and hear her lies.

After a long moment where Sansa believed that everyone could hear the beating of her heart as it was so loud, Joffrey turned back to man from House Hollard.  “Did you hear my lady, Ser Dontos?” One of the gold cloaks that had held him down now helped him to his feet.  “From this day, you’ll be my new fool.”

“Thank you, your grace,” Ser Dontos bowed to the king, relief in his voice as he wobbled on his feet.  “And you, my lady,” he bowed to her as well, and Sansa blinked in surprise, fighting to keep her face void of any expression as Joffrey glanced at her.  “Thank you.”

The gold cloaks dragged Dontos away and Sansa felt relief flood her as she fought not to smile.  Her plan was reckless and could have backfired painfully but it had worked.  Her pale blue eyes slid to the side where the Hound was watching her.  He too looked at her as if seeing her for the first time, his face twisted into confusion and curiosity.  It pulled at the burn scars, making him look even more grotesque than usual, but she was surprised to note that it did not bother her at all.

Sansa allowed herself to gaze fully upon him since Joffrey had stood and his back was to her.  His own darker eyes caught hers and she allowed herself to tilt her head down just a tick and blinked at him in gratitude.  Anyone else looking would have most likely missed the action as it was so minute, but Clegane had been looking directly at her and had seen it for what it was.  He grunted and shifted awkwardly as he looked away, drawn to the commotion as Tyrion Lannister marched across the wall.

Sansa turned as well, a feeling of satisfaction from her near blunder warming her chest as she took in the strange entourage.  The imp was followed by what looked like a sellsword and a group of the most primitive and barbaric men she had ever seen.  Her eyes stuttered over them, trying not to stare as was taught to her by her mother and her septa, it was not very lady-like, but she could not help but do just that as she caught the sight of the ugliest woman she had ever seen.  She was tall, nearly as tall as the Hound, her hair a dingy brown and unwashed as the rest of her, but that was not what caught Sansa’s eyes.  It was the string of ears that hung from the woman’s neck, blackened with age and adorned like trophies.  For all she knew they probably were.

“We looked for you on the battlefield,” the imp strode forward as quickly as his stubby legs could take him without running.  The sight of him in armor - Lannister red and decorated with lions - was almost as odd as the company he kept.  Joffrey retook his seat next to her, leaning on the arm of his chair and Sansa forced herself not to twitch so much as a muscle as it brought him closer to her.  “You were nowhere to be found.”

“I’ve been here, ruling the kingdoms,” Joffrey’s voice turned almost petulant as Tyrion helped himself to the wine on the small table that was set between Joffrey and his siblings.  Sansa had carefully dragged it between the two chairs when the king had been distracted during the beginning of the tournament and Tommen had given her a look of pure gratitude as it placed a barrier between the two brothers.

She had winked at him so subtly it could have been a blink and though Clegane was the only other person to see her action, he had not said a thing and for that she was thankful.  Joffrey had returned to the platform and seemed to not notice the shifted furniture at all.  It had the desired affect all the same, and Joffrey hardly spoke two words to his younger brother.

Sansa refused to let herself feel guilty for her actions.  They were not altruistic but calculated.  She had no allies in King’s Landing and that made her vulnerable.  Tommen was not much of an ally, neither was his sister, but they were the current heirs to the throne and Cersei’s children.  The queen may have hated her, but Cersei loved her children, and if Sansa could get Cersei’s children to love her than that would give her some protection from the queen and maybe perhaps protection from Joffrey.

“My lady,” the words drew her back to the present and Sansa blinked in surprise as Tyrion addressed her.  Sitting as she was, she was startled to note that she was at eye level with him.  He was not as hideous as she first thought, nearly a year ago in Winterfell when she had looked upon him from afar.  He was disproportionate as all dwarfs, but his eyes were kind.  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

His words were seafoam blue with sincerity as he bowed to her and Sansa felt a lump form in her throat.  She had heard the words spoken a thousand times from a thousand faces and all were colored with shades of lies.  Hearing them spoken with honesty for the first time left her speechless, a fact which she was thankful for as Joffrey turned to her so suddenly that her breath caught and she forced her eyes to remain dry and her heart to still its wild beating.

“Her loss?” The king mocked, turning back to the imp with a look of disgust.  “Her father was a confessed traitor.”

“But still her father,” Tyrion admonished him, his kind eyes turning into steel and Sansa was reminded that he too was a Lannister.  “Surely having so recently lost your own beloved father you can sympathize.”

Joffrey turned back to her, throwing his arm carelessly over the back of his chair as he made himself comfortable as he awaited her reply.  Sansa looked up from her lap where her fingers had turned white from gripping her dress so tightly and she fought not to flinch as the king gave her an expectant look.

Sansa licked her lips, swallowing around the lump in her throat as she turned back to the imp.  “My father was traitor,” she parroted the words that Cersei had drilled into her, voice void of any inflection.  “My mother and brother are traitors too.  I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey.”

Tyrion’s eyes were a softer green than his sister’s and they took on a pinched look as she spoke the words, his mouth drawing down into a frown before he smiled sadly at her.  “Of course you are,” the corner of his lip lifted in a sympathetic smirk and she knew he was impressed with the conviction in which she spoke but she also knew that he did not believe her.  Instead of drawing attention to her, he finished his wine in one gulp and turned back to Joffrey.  “Enjoy your name day, your grace.  Wish I could stay and celebrate, but there is work to be done.”

His wine cup was set almost carelessly upon the small table and Tyrion strode between the king and his betrothed.  When he passed, the imp’s hand brushed her arm and Sansa found she could breathe once again as Joffrey’s ire was drawn to his uncle.

“What work?” The king’s voice was petulant and bordering on whiny as Tyrion and his entourage left the courtyard and made their way inside the keep.  “Why are you here?!”

Tyrion did not deign to answer and he and his group were quickly out of sight.  Joffrey threw himself back into his makeshift throne gracelessly and demanded for the next combatants with sullen tone.  Sansa allowed her mind to wander as the sound of steel striking steel rang loudly off the stone.  Perhaps Tommen and Myrcella were not the only allies she had in King’s Landing, but she knew she had to tread carefully.  Although Tyrion seemed truly sympathetic to her plight, he was still a Lannister and all Lannister’s were dangerous, no matter how small.

~ Page Break ~

“When will Joffrey and Sansa be married?” Myrcella asked the question as only an innocent child could and Sansa fought not to choke on her food.  She dined with the queen and her two youngest children like she had twice a week since Joffrey had taken her father’s head.  If she was lucky, like tonight, Joffrey was too distracted by one thing or another to attend.

Sansa forgave the little girl for her naiveté, Joffrey was not cruel to her as he was to Tommen and Sansa.  Cersei shielded her daughter from the monster that was her son and even Joffrey knew better than to push his luck when it came to Myrcella.  The princess did not see much of her brother’s cruelty as Cersei refused to let her youngest attend court when Joffrey was holding it.  Myrcella did not care much for her elder brother, but she did not hate him like Sansa did…did not fear him like Tommen.

“Soon, darling,” the queen smiled at her daughter and sent a sly look of satisfaction at Sansa’s obvious discomfort.  “When the war is over.” Cersei’s green eyes slid to the Stark girl and she leaned back, a cup of wine held delicately between perfectly clean fingers.  There was not a speck of dirt on her, not even beneath her nails.  Sansa tucked her hands beneath the table and tried to discreetly clean her own nails that had been dirtied during her visit to the godswood where she had dug her fingers into the tree that was _not_ a weirwood until her fingertips bled.

“Mother says I’ll have a new gown for the ceremony and another for the feast,” Myrcella had turned to her with excitement in her eyes and Sansa stared at her in disbelief.  She could not understand her enthusiasm.  How had someone raised with Joffrey not see the monster that he was?  “But yours will be ivory, since you’re the bride.”

Tommen shifted uncomfortably next to his sister, gaze fixed on his plate.  Sansa felt her eyes drop from him to her own plate, throat dry as she fought back the tears that wanted to come forth at the thought of her wedding day.  When she was little she had dreamed of it, planned it down to the flowers that would decorate the windows in the sept.  Now, she would much rather throw herself from the window than marry the king.

The silence that had descended upon the table made her believe that she had spoken out loud for a moment, but Myrcella was just gazing at her in anticipation and the queen in satisfaction.

“The princess just spoke to you,” Cersei spoke the words slowly, eyes cold as ice and glinting dangerously in the candle light.

“Pardon, your grace,” Sansa said carefully, swallowing around the lump in her throat as she brought her hands slowly back up to the table to grab her fork.  She turned to Myrcella, taking in the girl’s Lannister gold hair and her cherub like face and she forced herself to smile.  It felt broken upon her face, glass shards cutting into her cheeks and punishing her for her falsehoods, but she spoke the words and made herself be as cold and still as winter.  “I’m sure your dress will be beautiful, Myrcella.  I’m counting the days until the fighting is done and I can pledge my love to the king in the sight of the gods.”

Sansa did not choke on the words, she did not stumble or falter or cry, but she wanted to…oh how she wanted to.  She wanted to scream so loudly that all of the King’s Landing would hear.  She wanted to rage and cry and throw her pretty plate upon the pristine floor and take the knife in her hand and plunge it into the queen’s heart, if she even had one.  Instead she smiled softly once more at the princess and took another bite of her dinner.

Cersei gazed upon the northern girl in what Sansa thought was a look of impressed satisfaction.  She probably thought she had broken the girl, made her parrot her own lies so much that she was starting to believe them.  Sansa forced her gaze to stay upon the table and let herself be broken.

“Is Joffrey going to kill Sansa’s brother?” Tommen’s question had her gasping for air, her corset suddenly too tight as the queen continued to gaze upon her as a lioness would contemplating its next meal.

“He might,” Cersei replied.  Sansa reached for her glass of water and gulped it down quickly to wet her suddenly parched throat.  She kept holding the cup even after she set it down, afraid that if she released it her hands would tremble and they would all see.  “Would you like that?” The queen asked.

“No,” Tommen replied in the sudden silence.  “I don’t think so.” Sansa had never been more thankful for the prince as she was now.  Although it was Tommen who had answered, the question had been posed to her.

The queen smiled viciously at her before she leaned forward in her chair and spoke to her youngest son like she was whispering a secret.  “Even if he does, Sansa will do her duty,” Cersei relaxed back into her seat, leaning casually on one arm much like Joffrey had during his name day.  Her lips twisted into a cruel mocking smile as her eyes swept Sansa’s pale face.  “Won’t you, little dove?”

Sansa turned from her, throat thick as she forced herself to nod, gaze fixed upon her plate.  She pushed her food around and tried to pretend as if she was eating, but anytime somebody so much as twitched in their seats Sansa had to fight from flinching.  It was Tommen who once again broke the silence and Sansa wished he would just keep his tongue like he did when Joffrey was around.

“Do you think Joffrey will trade Sansa for Uncle Jaime?” The question was innocent, but Sansa saw something sinister spark in the queen.

“I should think not,” Cersei replied casually, twirling the wine around in her cup as her gaze turned disinterested.  Her casual indifference was a lie, Sansa could tell, and she took a deep shuddering breath to prepare herself.  “Sansa’s traitorous brother has sent his demands,” the words came after a long pause and despite herself Sansa felt anticipation well up within her and she had to fight the urge to fidget.  “He demanded the release of his sister, the bones of his father, and…” she trailed of and Sansa felt her breath catch.  The queen caught the action, her lips twisting into satisfaction and Sansa had the sudden cold feeling as if she had walked into a trap.  “He demands the king give up his claim to all of the north.”

Sansa blinked in surprise, wetting her dry lips as she clutched at her cutlery.  The queen was still smiling at her and Sansa did not know why.  It made her feel as if she was on the precipice of a cliff, but Cersei gazed upon her as if the Stark girl had already jumped…or been pushed.

“Will Joffrey do as he asks?” Myrcella asked softly, her fork dragging across the plate and causing it to create a screeching noise that Sansa could not help but flinch at.  Cersei gave her daughter a reproachful look and Myrcella blushed sweetly, rosy cheeks upon pale skin, as she set her fork down carefully.  “Will he give up the north?”

“No, sweetling,” the queen smiled softly at her, fondness in her eyes.  It made her look younger, the genuine smile turning her from sinister to beautiful and Sansa hated her for it.  “And Robb Stark knew that when he sent his demands,” Cersei turned back to her captive and Sansa dug her nails into the palms of her hands until they bled to keep her face still of all emotion.

“Do you think he knows that Joffrey wouldn’t agree?” Tommen asked curiously.  Sansa on the other hand felt her own curiosity wither and die.  She was beginning to see the bigger picture and it left her face pale as her heart nearly stilled in her chest.

Cersei gazed upon her in smug victory as the reality started to encompass the Stark girl.  “Of course he knows.  He knows that Joffrey would never give up the north, and by asking he knew that none of his other demands would be met either.”

_He isn’t coming for me_.

The thought would not leave her.  Even with her gaze fixed upon the table she could see the words as they left the queens mouth.  They were vivid blue in truthful satisfaction.  The queen spoke with certainty and Sansa knew her to be right.

_He isn’t coming for me._

“But then why did he ask?” Tommen, sweet innocent Tommen who spoke words laced orange in curiosity.  Why did he keep speaking?  Could he not see the torment she was in?

“Why indeed?” Cersei replied, sipping at her wine while she fixed Sansa with a look of pure pleasure as the girl’s world shattered around her.  The northerner did not have to pretend to be broken then.

The rest of dinner was a quiet affair and Sansa was excused not much later.  She did not run from the room, but she wanted too.  She felt the queen’s icy gaze until the door closed behind her and the guards escorted her back to her room - her prison.

She wondered, as she walked slowly through the stone halls, what had made her Aunt Lyanna so special.  When Lyanna had been kidnapped a war had broken out that had shattered the seven kingdoms and placed a new hierarchy in power.  What made Lyanna so special that she could bring a kingdom to war, but her family would not end one for Sansa.

_He isn’t coming for me._

The guards left her at her chamber door and Sansa closed it softly behind her as the tears finally fell.  They left trails down her cheeks as she pulled herself to the open window.  She was seven stories up, the fall would surely kill her.  Her hands touched the sill, the stone cold beneath her palms and pulling at her tender wounds from her nails as she leaned forward.  It was dark enough that she could not see the ground, but certainly it was far enough.

There was a knock on her door just as she started to pull herself over the sill and Sansa gasped in surprise as she threw herself away from the window, stumbling into a chair and nearly falling.  She righted herself quickly, calling for the person to enter as her heart pounded beneath her ribs so harshly that she felt it would beat right out of her chest.

A woman entered, likely twice her age and beautifully foreign.  Her eyes were slanted in a way Sansa had never seen and her skin was darker than any of the ladies at court.  She was dressed almost immodestly, her thin dress exposing her entire back.

“Who are you?” Sansa asked sharply, all courtesies leaving her as she wiped the dried tears from her cheeks.  She had none left, her lessons on being a lady abandoning her in her annoyance.  She just wanted to be alone and forget about how close she had come from killing herself.  Her father would be so disappointed in her.

“I’m Shae, my lady.  Your new handmaiden,” Shae spoke softly, her dark eyes sweeping the room.

Sansa thought her accent was fascinating, having heard nothing like it, but she was too tired to do more than blink.  “I didn’t know I needed a new handmaiden,” she replied softly, blue eyes rimmed red as the scrutinized the woman before her.  She wondered what Cersei was up to.  “Did the queen send you?” She was proud with how casual the question sounded.

“No,” Shae replied and her words were soft blue in confused truth.  Sansa could not stop herself from frowning.  If the queen did not send her, than who did?  Her time in King’s Landing had taught her a harsh truth.  She had no friends, her allies were powerless children, and nobody was there to help her.

“Who sent you?” The question was harsh, defensive, and Sansa’s eyes darted to the closed door and her hand clenched around nothing.  She wished she had kept the knife from dinner, not that she knew how to use it.

Shae looked at her in exasperation, moving further into the room as she gazed at Sansa’s meager belongings.  Her eyes alighted on the doll placed upon the pillow but she said nothing.  “Does it matter?” Shae asked sharply, moving over to the window and closing it to the cold wind that had begun to creep into the room.  “I am here to serve you, not spy on you or kill you if that is what you are worried about.”

Sansa scrutinized her carefully, watching as the air around her body became seafoam blue.  Sansa felt herself slump into the seat by the vanity in relief at the truth of the words.  The northern girl did not know why or how she came to be able to see the truth of those around her, but she was thankful for it.  The day that she had woken from the dream of flying and the red comet burned brightly in the sky, she could see spoken truth like an aura that hovered around those who spoke it.  Sansa was still working out what certain colors meant, but she knew how to recognize a lie immediately.  It was almost as if she had been born with the knowledge.

That day did not just dawn with her new ability that she spoke of to no one, but also the deep aching urge to leave King’s Landing.  She did not know where it was that she wished to leave to, but somehow she knew it was not back to the north.  It left Sansa feeling terribly confused and also deeply guilty.  If she somehow made it out of King’s Landing her first priority should be to get back to her family, but Sansa knew that if she escaped, she would go to where the pull in the pit of her heart would take her.

Shae approached her slowly as Sansa felt tears of relief begin to fall from her eyes.  The woman hovered near her, unsure of what to do so Sansa straightened quickly, swiping the wetness from her face almost angrily before she grabbed the brush off the vanity and gave it to her new handmaiden.

The foreign woman took it with gentle fingers before she began to pull the bristles through Sansa’s fiery red hair.  Shae handled the brush delicately and Sansa felt herself begin to relax for the first time since her father had been incarcerated.  “You’re not from here, are you?”  Sansa asked after a long moment of silence.

Shae was quiet while she gently unbraided Sansa’s hair before she brushed that as well.  “No, I am from Lorath.”

“Lorath?  Is it far?” Sansa asked curiously, eyes closed and head tilted back.

“Yes, it is an island in the northern most part of Essos, east from Braavos,” Shae answered as she finished brushing Sansa’s hair and braided it loosely so she could sleep with it out of the way.

Sansa smiled at her softly, the thought of anyplace away from King’s Landing.  Shae helped her change into her night gown and Sansa was thankful that she did not comment upon the bruises that still decorated her torso and legs although Sansa could clearly see her frown.  Ser Meryn’s sword left welts that lasted a long time.

Shae tucked her into the bed, pulled the fluffy comforter over her bare arms and brushed the loose strand of hair from her forehead and Sansa could not help but smile at the gentleness of it.  It reminded her of her father.

“Is there anything else, my lady?” Shae asked softly, pulling Sansa from the light doze she had not realized that she had fallen into.  Sansa mumbled a quiet no and watched as her new handmaiden blew out the candles and left her room, the door creaking loudly in the quiet as she closed it behind her.

Sansa tucked her damaged hands into her chest and let herself sleep.

~ Page Break ~

Sansa woke to birdsong outside her bedroom window, the sun slowly creeping across the cobbled floor.  Shae was already busying herself about the room as Sansa pulled herself from her bed.  The Lorathi woman was a blessing in the hell that had become her life, her uncaring attitude and blatant disregard for societal etiquette was almost endearing…even if the woman was a liar.

Shae had stated that she had been a handmaiden to another lady before, but the words were pale pink and Sansa knew them to be untrue.  She never questioned her new handmaiden though, letting the lie stand between them unspoken.  It did not matter who or what Shae was before she came to King’s Landing, she was Sansa’s handmaiden now and all that mattered was that Cersei had not sent her.

Her other handmaidens, the ones given to her by the queen to spy on her, still dithered about when they could, following her from one social event to another, but they were no longer permitted into her chamber.  Only Shae was given that privilege.  She knew Cersei would not look kindly upon her decision, but the queen had not confronted her about it yet.  Sansa wondered with trepidation what the woman was waiting for.

The pounding upon her chamber door startled her.  Sansa fought to compose herself as Shae answered it, brushing her hands down the greyish blue fabric to smooth out the wrinkles.  A gold cloak stood outside, armor near pristine with his helmet under his non dominant arm and his hand upon the hilt of his sword.  Sansa recognized him as Ser Oakheart.  Ser Arys Oakheart was the gentlest of the kingsguard, always hesitant to hit her as Joffrey ordered.  He still struck her, but his blows never connected as fully as Ser Meryn Trant’s did.

“Pardon, my lady,” Ser Arys spoke softly, eyes trailing to the floor and Sansa felt her cheeks turn hot as she tried to pull the gap in her dress closed.  Even with the corset she did not fill out the gown as it was tailored and Sansa had to move carefully else she would be exposed indecently.  “The King demands your presence in the throne room.”

“How soon?” Shae demanded to know and Ser Arys turned to her, frown upon his lips at her speaking out of turn.

“Beg your pardon?”

“How soon does his grace need Lady Sansa,” her voice turned exasperated, hand upon the door as if to shut it on him.  “My lady still needs to finish getting ready.”

His pale blue eyes turned back to Sansa as she stood from the table and he seemed to finally see what he had been looking at.  Her breakfast had hardly been touched and though she was dressed, her hair had yet to be styled.  “You have a few minutes,” the words were barely out before the door was closed upon him and Sansa did not know whether to be amused by her handmaiden’s attitude or annoyed, either way she did not have the time to decide as moments later Shae was ushering her to the vanity and untying her braid with deft fingers.

It took no time at all before Shae had her hair up and styled in the gaudy fashion that the southroners were so fond of.  Sansa was thankful that Shae did not have to be told to style it in the way that Cersei wore it herself.  Joffrey was usually less cruel when Sansa tried to look like his mother.

 Sansa stood there gazing upon the hooks holding her various necklaces as Shae tied the intricate metal belt around her waist.  “It will help hold your dress in place,” she commented softly with her thick accent that Sansa was beginning to love, pulling her gown into place and straitening any wrinkles.

She could not decide upon which necklace to wear, though there was only three.  The one on the far left she had not worn since her father had been executed.  It was oval in shape and was a smaller version of the lion necklace that the queen wore, though Sansa’s own was silver and not gold like Cersei’s.  Even though she knew that it would be beneficial to her own survival, Sansa could not bring herself to so much as look at it.  Keeping it was the only thing she could do, but only because getting rid of it was far too dangerous.

Her fingers trailed upon the necklace to the far right, as far from the lion’s head as it could be.  It was her family’s sigil, the emblem was iron, not the delicate silver but the metal that forged weapons.  It was a piece of the north and she dare not wear it.  She was tempted though, the chain slipping through her fingertips, leaving them tingling in its wake.  It was a miracle that the guards had missed it, when tearing her room apart and confiscating all of her belongings.

It had been under the dining table, carelessly thrown after she had learned that her father planned to ship her and her sister back to Winterfell.  Sansa had been so angry then, her rage making her want to destroy anything that reminded her of the north.  She had found it nearly a month after her father’s death, wedged between the cracks in the stone.  The chain was broken, three of the links twisted beyond repair, but Sansa had fixed it as best she could in the cover of darkness by the candlelight in her room when all others had gone to bed.

She hung it in plain sight, not because she wanted to be caught, but simply because she knew that the easiest way to hide something was to simply not hide it at all. 

The chain slipped free from the hook and Sansa held the cold metal in her hands, staring at it in a fascination that she could not fully understand.  It was only once the necklace slipped free from her fingers did she turn to look at Shae as her handmaiden placed it back upon its hook.  Shae did not comment upon the wolf sigil embossed upon the medallion, she did not even so much as give it a passing glance and for that Sansa was grateful.  She did not think she could bare to even speak of it.

“How about the dragonfly?” Shae questioned lightly, pulling the dragonfly pendant from the middle and holding it up to the light.  Sansa turned her back in acquiescence and Shae clasped it around her neck and then carefully moved her hair out of place.  Dragonflies were safe, they were neither wolf nor lion.  Though it would give her no leniency from Joffrey, it did not feel like a collar as his own gifted necklace did.

The walk to the throne room felt particularly foreboding and Sansa started to feel her heart pound against her ribcage as the doors opened and the lords and ladies made way for her.  The looks in their eyes were almost pity but some, she could see, held a dark sort of excitement that felt almost sinister.  The court was nearly silent, only the shifting of silk and cotton garments interrupted her own loud footsteps that echoed off the now barren walls and pillars.

“Kneel,” the king’s first words to her left her throat tight and a fear that turned her blood to ice.  The stone floor felt almost cold upon her knees as she prostrated herself before him and Sansa’s only fleeting thought as Joffrey grabbed the crossbow that had leant against his throne was perhaps she should have worn the lion after all.

The king raised the finely ornamented weapon and aimed it at her.  For a moment she felt her heart stop as her gaze fixed itself upon the arrow and like a deer in the sights of a hunter she could not move.

_But I’m valuable._

The words echoed in her mind as her breaths came in short pants that her corset would only allow.  _I’m valuable_.  But they felt hollow as Joffrey grinned at her behind his crossbow and she realized that too him her value was nothing.  Her winter blue eyes darted around the courtroom, but the king stood alone upon the raised dais and his mother was nowhere to be found.  It was in that moment, kneeling upon the unswept floor of the throne room, dried leaves crumbling in the folds of her dress, and the court whispering behind her that she realized what she was truly worth.

It hurt, their disregard to her plight, their apathy to her possible death.  Even her own handmaidens, the ones owned by the queen, stared at her as if she were no more than entertainment, as if she were acting out a part of a play for their own amusement.  It was that more than the fear of her own death that brought tears to her eyes as she pleaded softly for her own life.

“You’re here to answer for your brother’s latest treasons,” Joffrey’s voice was smug, crossbow trailing form her torso to her knees as his weak arms began to tremble under the weight of the weapon.

“Your grace,” she began meekly, leaning forward slightly in hopes to appease him with her exposed cleavage, what little of it she did have.  She had seen many ladies of the court pull off the same coy flirtation to sway the opinions of men.  She knew her body was not as enticing as theirs, but it was the only armor she had.  “Whatever my traitor brother has done, I had no part in,” her voice trembled of the words and Joffrey seemed pleased at her terror.  “You know that.  I beg you-”

“Ser Lancel,” Joffrey interrupted her, lowering the crossbow further and though Sansa felt her heartrate lower with it, she kept herself meek and forced more tears to her eyes to appease him.  “Tell her of this outrage.”

“Using some vile sorcery, your brother fell on Stafford Lannister with an army of wolves,” Lancel spoke loudly as he strode forward to address the court.  Sansa vaguely recognized him as the previous king’s squire, but he looked so different now.  His clothes were tailored immaculately, finely oriented sword hanging from his just as gaudy belt, and not a speck of dirt upon him.  She was learning that the Lannister’s loathed dirt in any form.  “Thousands of good men were butchered.  After the slaughter, the northernmen feasted on the flesh of the slain.”

The court murmured in horror behind him, but Sansa only turned from him, simpering in her tears to hide her disgust.  Ser Lancel’s words were red, lies meant to incite action and sway minds.  When she faced Joffrey, the king had the gold and red crossbow aimed back at her heart and she saw his finger twitch upon the trigger and this time her tears were real.  In that moment she feared he would kill her, there before his court that did nothing but whisper behind dainty hands in morbid fascination.

Part of her almost did not care, fingers twisting into the fabric of her long sleeves.  If he killed her, than the crown would have no more leverage over her brother and she could finally be free, like the dragonflies she watched in the gardens.  She wished to be those shiny little insects so badly, free to come and go as they pleased, that she had bought a necklace with its adornment, embroidered them into her clothing, and decorated pins in her hair.

Sansa wanted to fly so very far away from the capital that she could taste in the back of her throat even when she slept.  And when she dreamed, she dreamt that she had leather wings on which the wind would carry her, not feathers of the thin iridescence of insect wings.  She dreamt of being a dragon, and cursed whenever someone called her a bird.  But decorating her clothes with dragons was almost more dangerous than adorning a wolf, so she embroidered dragonflies instead.  It was the closest she could get to defiance, the closest she dared.

Joffrey sneered down at her from the dais, one eye closed to better his aim.  It made his head looked pinched.  “Killing you would send your brother a message,” he commented softly, and Sansa turned her gaze to the floor, exposing her neck and bosom as she gasped in near silent tears.  “But my mother insists on keeping you alive,” Joffrey sighed in almost annoyance, lowering the crossbow and returning it to lean upon the side of the throne as he commanded her to stand.

She stood slowly, uncertainty making her chest tight as she watched the king’s words turned yellow with menace.  He sat himself upon his thrown and the all the kingsguard turned to her but the Hound and Sansa felt the breath leave her as her knees became weak.

“So we’ll have to send your brother a message some other way…Meryn,” the knight turned to look at the king before he started to approach and Sansa fought her own instinct not to run.  “Leave her face,” Joffrey added in afterthought as Meryn circled her like a lion would its prey.   “I like her pretty.”

She stared at the king, begging with her eyes that he not do this, but Joffrey only smiled back until Ser Meryn grabbed her shoulder and turned her to him.  _Please_ , she wanted to beg, _please no_ , but her lips barely moved and the joy in his eyes showed that she would find no mercy from him.  Ser Meryn Trant enjoyed hurting people, and he enjoyed hurting girls the most.

Although she had braced herself for the pain, she had expected to be backhanded, not for him to plunge his gauntlet covered fist into her tender belly.  Her corset absorbed some of the impact, but not nearly enough as she stumbled back, held upright only by his unyielding grip upon her shoulder.  Her cry of pain nearly drowned out the gasping of the crowd behind her and she saw many turn away, including the Ser Lancel who had spoken such dark lies earlier.  Sansa hated him the most then, in his finely embroidered red and gold, newly knighted, and drunk on power.  It was his words that did this to her and the man barely out of boyhood, face smooth of any stubble, turned from the consequences.  She wanted him to watch what his words had wrought.

An almost synchronized murmuring of horror drowned the sounds out in the throne room and Sansa stumbled forward on trembling legs as Ser Meryn moved behind her.  The strike of the flat of his blade to the back of her thighs caused her to cry out in surprise more than pain, but the burning sting of it came moments later and she fought not to fall onto the dirtied floor but ultimately failed.

Joffrey smiled down at her, worm lips twisted into sinister delight as he pulled himself from the throne in excitement.  “Meryn,” he interrupted the knight’s next swing and Sansa made herself be still as she gasped through the pain.  “My lady is overdressed…unburden her.

The gold cloak strode behind her, boots echoing loudly even over the horrified whispering as he drew a dagger from his belt.  Ser Meryn grabbed the back of her dress, the one she had spent days embroidering tiny little dragonflies upon and drew the blade through the ties, exposing her to the court.  She brought her arms up to cover her indecency, but Ser Meryn only pulled her dress down further.

“If you want Robb Stark to hear us,” Joffrey’s voice was alight with dark amusement, sickly yellow in color and tinging reddish orange in arousal.  “We’re going to have to speak louder!”

_“No,”_ Sansa gasped out, face twisted in fear and terror as Ser Meryn once more drew his sword.  He raised his blade and Sansa felt a scream clawing at the back of her throat before a voice finally spoke from the crowd.

“What is the meaning of this?!” The words echoed in the sudden silence and Sansa turned as Trant froze, blade poised to strike her.  The court parted swiftly, many looking away and whispering soft green words of shame as the smallest Lannister strode with purpose through the crowd.  His face was twisted with rage as Ser Meryn turned from them and sheathed his sword.  Sansa thought he looked almost disappointed.

“What kind of knight beats a helpless girl?” Tyrion strode between them, making Ser Meryn return to his position as the small Lannister stood before her.

“The kind who serves his king, Imp.” His words were laced a yellowish orange with hatred.  He despised Tyrion Lannister, but for what reason she did not know.

“Careful now,” the one who came with Tyrion spoke for the first time, his accent thick with characteristics of one born in low standing.  “We don’t want to get blood all over your pretty white cloak.”

“Someone get the girl something to cover herself with,” though small in stature, his voice rang loudly throughout the hall.  The Hound moved towards her as Tyrion strode up the steps, voice tight with anger.  “She is to be your queen.  Have you no regard for her honor?”

“I’m punishing her.” Joffrey replied, tone turning petulant.

Sansa turned to gaze upon Sandor Clegane as he tore his own white cloak from his back and draped it over her.  It was dirty, like the man who wore it, and smelled faintly of sour wine, but Sansa was grateful all the same and pulled the heavy material further over herself until she was so bundled up in it, all the court could see was her head.

“For what crimes?” Tyrion admonished Joffrey, his words changing between the yellowish orange of hate to bright green in disgust and Sansa could not look away from the spectacle.  Behind her the court shifted uncomfortably, some still flashing the color of shame as the whispered to each other, but most already moving on to the new bit of entertainment as the imp reprimanded the king.  “She did not fight her brother’s battle, you half-wit.”

“You can’t talk to me like that.  The king can do as he likes!” Joffrey screamed in petulance, voice high and nasally with frustration.  He turned from the smaller man, striding back to the throne and sitting upon it almost like a girl would, legs crossed and dainty.

“The Mad King did as he liked,” Tyrion’s tone turned soft as he took a few more steps up the dais until he was nearly at the top.  “Has your Uncle Jaime ever told you what happened to him?”

Ser Meryn Trant stepped towards the imp, hand on his blade as anger colored his face a blubbery red.  “No one threatens his grace in the presence of the kingsguard.”

Tyrion did not even bother to look at the man, the one who came with him stood next to Sansa, hand on his own blade and at the ready.  Sansa remained kneeling upon the floor between them and she forced herself not to move as the two warriors eyed each other over her.

“I’m not threatening the King, Ser.  I am educating my nephew.  Bronn,” he barely looked over his shoulder at the man who stood next to Sansa before returning his hardened gaze back upon Joffrey.  “The next time Ser Meryn speaks, kill him.  That was a threat,” Tyrion finally turned to Ser Meryn and Sansa could see the hatred in the knight’s eyes as he glared at the imp.  “See the difference?”

The silence between them seemed to last an eternity, but Ser Meryn did not speak again.  Tyrion turned from them and faced her, walking down the steps with a sort of hop that his little legs would only allow before he stopped before her.  He held a hand out, palm down as if to quiet a frightened horse, and walked to her right side slowly.  His palm twisted up and Sansa gazed upon him, not comprehending until his head bowed to his hand and she took it in her own to stand.

Tyrion’s head remained bowed, whether it was in respect or if he was just being mindful of her state of undress, she was grateful as she fought to keep her face still and emotions under control.  He wore the golden pin of the Hand-of-the-King, the same one that her father had worn and it left her with a hollow feeling in her heart as she stood.

Joffrey threw himself from his throne, rage coloring his very being and Sansa turned from him with all the dignity she could muster.  Her handmaidens, the ones gifted from the queen, flocked around her as she started to make her way out of the throne room, Tyrion at her side.

“I apologize for my nephew’s behavior,” he spoke to her for the first time since Joffrey’s nameday.  His words turned soft, seafoam blue with sincerity.  “Tell me the truth, do you want an end to this engagement?”

The question was not innocent, but it was curios.  She knew that there was no sinister plot behind it, and yet she could not bring herself to answer truthfully.  The words that came to her were the words she had parroted to the queen time and time again.  “I am loyal the King Joffrey, my one true love.”

She was no dragon nor a dragonfly, just a pretty little song bird in a golden cage.


	3. Interlude: Irri

Irri stood silently by the bed, fingers raw from scrubbing the last of the waste off the khaleesi’s boot and sanding down the rough edge where she had fixed the loose heel.  She tried not to let jealousy and anger get to her, but sometime during their last few days in the red waste and the first few in Qarth, her khaleesi had forgiven Doreah.  For what slight she was unsure, but the sudden attention she was showing the girl left a bitter taste in the dothraki woman’s mouth.

“Dracarys,” she heard her khaleesi murmur in an amused soft tone.  Irri was not sure what language she spoke but to her it sounded beautiful, flowing from the mouth gently unlike the dothraki language that was all guttural stops and hard edges.

There was movement from the corner of her eye and she turned as Drogon coughed a tiny flame and burned the meat.  Irri smiled in fondness at the largest of the young dragons.  While the gold, Viserion, was her favorite, Drogon held a soft spot in her heart.  The black dragon, though not much older than his brothers, seemed to have an old soul. Her people had a term for what he was, **_foz ato yolat save_**.  An old one, born again into the world when their purpose had not been served in the last.

She had never heard of an animal being a **_foz ato yolat save_** , but then again it was known that all dragons were gone from the world.  And yet here she stood, in a room of one of the wealthiest cities in all of Essos, watching one of the first dragons in over a century learn how to breathe fire.  Outside the window, the comet burned red, it’s tail scarring the blue sky like an open wound.

“Let him sleep, Doreah,” the words came softly in the gentle common tongue.  It did not flow quite like the language the khaleesi had been using earlier.  The khaleesi joined her by the bed and Irri fought not to smile as she watched Doreah fail to retrieve Drogon to place him in his cage.  The little black hatchling had hissed at the oval eyed handmaiden and climbed into the leather cage himself.  Doreah’s face twisted, but she said nothing as she placed Drogon’s cage next to his siblings.

Irri turned to Daenerys as she picked up the horse skin leather top that Irri had spent all night mending.  Her fingers had been throbbing from forcing the needle through the thick skin, hands aching as she pushed and pulled the cat gut thread, eyes straining in the low candle light as Doreah laughed and giggled with the khaleesi in the bath splashing water upon the stone floor where Irri would later scrub that up as well.

Part of her hated how easily her khaleesi fell for Doreah’s obvious fake simpering and carefully colored words.  The other part was ashamed of her own anger at the khaleesi and her other handmaiden.  Before she had been gifted to the khal’s wife she had been a slave with no standing.  The men were free to come and go into her shared tent as they saw fit and if she so much as uttered a word they would have had her killed like had her sister.  Her only protection was her gift of languages which was why she had been given as a wedding present.

She pulled herself away from those dark thoughts as the khaleesi smiled at her, her pale fingers ghosting over the repaired leather top.  **_“I rewove this part at the top,”_** Irri commented lightly in dothraki, showing her khaleesi the repaired areas.  **_“And I fixed the heel on this one.”_**

Daenerys smiled at her gently, the corners of her violet blue eyes crinkling in fondness as they bumped shoulders.  Irri turned back to the boot, face split in a satisfied grin as a warm feeling spread through her chest.

“Thank you, my friend,” the khaleesi replied in the common tongue and Irri fought not to feel slighted at the snub to her own language.  She knew that the exotic woman was not used to the dothraki tongue and had not quite mastered the guttural stops that it required, but Irri always felt a sense of pride when her khaleesi spoke it having been the one to teach her, even if her accent was thick and no better than a child.

“Did you see the dress Xaro had made for you?” Doreah interrupted, darting over to the bed on whimsical feet that seemed not to touch the floor.  She pulled the sheer blue fabric through her clean fingers, caressing the material as she presented it to her khaleesi.  “They say he's the wealthiest man in Qarth.” Her voice was soft, almost silken as she spoke the words with seduction.

“It is known.” Irri commented lightly, trying to draw Daenerys’ attention back as the other woman dropped the mended leather top to turn to the blue dress being presented to her.

“And if Qarth is the wealthiest city in Essos,” Doreah commented playfully, but the expression on the khaleesi’s face stopped her words short.

“The last time a rich man gave me a dress, he was selling me to Khal Drogo,” Daenerys spoke the words both in anger and regret.  She gazed at the dress in something akin to sadness, her hair tied away from her face and finally recovering from the malnutrition though it was still frayed and split at the ends.

**_“May he ride forever through the night lands.”_** Irri’s tone and voice were soft, her gaze fixed down in reverence as her hands paused in the sanding of the boot.

Daenerys turned to her, expression oddly blank.  She neither smiled nor grimaced, just glanced at Irri and then turning away almost immediately, mind turning to other topics as if her husband’s death had no effect on her barring…or as if she wanted it to be seen that way.

“Xaro is our host, but we know nothing about him,” Daenerys’ words were carefully pronounced like everything else about her.  Irri envied her ease in which she presented herself to the world.  Unlike herself and Doreah, it was obvious by her baring alone that the khaleesi had never before been seen as anything else then powerful and wealthy.  Although she had no wealth of her own, not anymore since that died with her husband, she still portrayed herself as a woman who had much.  “Men like to talk about other men,” the khaleesi spoke to Doreah alone then, her hands releasing the pale blue fabric to return to the mended top.  “When they're happy.”

Doreah laughed softly, the coy smile that flitted across her face made something clench in Irri’s heart.  Her discomfort went unnoticed by the other two women as Doreah bowed in acquiescence and turned back to lay the dress out upon the bed, smoothing it of all wrinkles.

“You would look like a real princess in Xaro's-”

Irri cut her off, offended by her choice of words.  “She's not a princess. She's a khaleesi!” Doreah had a better grasp of the common tongue then Irri, and it angered her that the younger woman would demote the woman they followed into the waste and out the other side.  Khaleesi translated closer to queen then princess and Doreah had known that.

Daenerys turned to her, surprise etched on her face at both Irri’s outburst and her use of the common tongue.  She knew quite well that Irri preferred the dothraki language over any other and once Daenerys had had a decent grasp of it, she had nearly stopped using the common tongue altogether.  Irri flushed in embarrassment, turning her attention back to the boot in her hands.  It took her a moment to gather her courage to speak once more, and again, she spoke in the common tongue.  If it was the language her khaleesi preferred, it was the language she would use, even if it felt dull and expressionless on her tongue.  “You should wear it, Khaleesi. You are their guest. It would be rude not to.”

Irri gathered her things quickly, trying not to rush from the room as she made what she hoped was a graceful exit.  She ignored the smug look of satisfaction on Doreah’s beautiful face and the smile stretching across Daenerys’ as she picked the blue silken dress up once more.  The door closed heavily behind her, the echoing thud following her down the hallway as she tried to calm her raging anger at the younger handmaiden.

It had not been accidental, Doreah using princess instead of the translated queen.  The slight had gone over her khaleesi’s head, but Irri dared not draw attention to it as Doreah was once again in Daenerys’ favor.  Irri feared for her khaleesi, Doreah was not a kind woman, though young she was cunning as any of the Doth Khaleen that Irri had had the displeasure of knowing.

She feared that Doreah had something planned and she was afraid that it would leave their khaleesi in a dangerous position.  But Irri had been born a slave and given to the horde when only a child.  She had always been a slave, and the first thing she had learned, from the tender mercies of a nine-tailed whip, was that it was never her place to speak such things.  The khaleesi tolerated much from her people, but Irri feared that this would not be one of them.

After she had taken a sufficient amount of time stowing away the mending supplies, she returned to the room to help prepare the khaleesi for the party that was to take place later in Xaro’s elaborate gardens.  She unbraided the silver white hair, much finer than any she had ever seen as Doreah stroked perfume along the pale white skin.  Daenerys’ laughed and joked with them, her words were not tainted with the earlier tension, and yet Irri still held her tongue.

The Khaleesi Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen was the closest thing Irri had ever had that was close to a true friendship, and she dare not ruin it over a suspicion about the handmaiden from the pleasure houses.  But she would be cautious all the same.

Irri had not intended to join the party, but Daenerys would hear none of it.  With her two handmaidens flanking her, Doreah in her own gown that exposed her stomach and forearms in a tasteful but still more lewd manner than any other woman present, and Irri in her finest leathers that did little more than make her look like a clean barbarian - but a barbarian nonetheless - the khaleesi descended the steps and into the crowd.

Doreah broke off almost immediately, surrounding herself with well-educated and finely dressed older men as Irri excused herself from the bustle of tittering women flocking around the amused khaleesi.  Irri stationed herself a dozen feet away from Daenerys, if the woman should have need of her, but far enough away that she could not hear the topic of conversation as the buzz of chatter filled the air around her like a swarm of bees.  The older of the bloodriders, Aggo, joined her, standing just as stiffly as the painted women and perfumed men circled from one group to the other around them.

She pulled a cord of leather through her sweaty palms as the khaleesi shared an amused look with Doreah who was a dozen or so paces on the other side, two small bushes cut into paths separating their social groups.  Suddenly, the khaleesi broke away from her group, striding purposefully across the garden to her other bloodrider, Kovarro, and the oldest of their surviving Khalasar, Malakko.  Jorah stood behind the large golden bird statue speaking dothraki loud enough to grab the attention of the people around him.  By the amused smile, he had intended to pull the khaleesi into their group and had succeeded.

Irri did not know what to think about the man known as Jorah the Andal.  He had sworn himself to Viserys, and then betrayed that oath to protect the khaleesi.  Irri did not believe that he was a man easily swayed from his loyalties, and yet swayed he had been.  He followed the younger woman much like a dog, utter protection and complete devotion in his eyes.  His service to the khaleesi would be invaluable, as long as the khaleesi was never to learn of his true feelings for her.

Everyone knew that Jorah the Andal loved Daenerys, even before Khal Drogo had died.  But no one had said anything, out of respect for the man’s fighting abilities and knowledge of combat.  Daenerys, though a woman grown, had an innocence about her that Irri was afraid could be broken if she learned of Jorah’s true feelings.  Not because of his emotions to her, but her own lack of them to him.  Daenerys Stormborn had loved greatly and deeply, but that love was held for one man alone and he now rode with his ancestors.  Jorah’s feelings could break her, if she let it.

They spoke quietly enough that Irri could not hear what was said, but she watched the two dothraki men separate and Kovarro was soon joining them, stuffing a third golden cup into his bag.

**_“The khaleesi will be cross if she is to know about you stealing from our host.”_** Irri said to him softly, aware that others around them may also speak her mother tongue.  Kovarro gave her a scornful look, and a few months ago it would have scared her into begging forgiveness.  Now it just scared her into silence and she bowed her head lowly, aware that his position as a man and as a bloodrider outranked her own as a woman and a handmaiden.  She was apologetic that she had spoken, but not for what she had said, so Irri apologized not at all.

**_“What the khaleesi don’t know, hurts no one,”_** Kovarro spoke after a moment, turning from her as he sought out the woman who led their people.  She was not hard to find, the blue of her dress made the silver in her hair shine brightly.  She stood in another group of older rounding men dressed in pale yellows and gold chains.  Jorah stood not much further back, speaking to a woman clothed in red.

Kovarro, Aggo, and Irri stood alone in the garden watching their khaleesi.  The Qarthian people made wide circles around them as if they would be tainted by breathing the same air.  The party stretched from noon until sunset and then well into the night.  The khaleesi was still floating from one group of perfumed nobles to another, making conversation and connections.  Irri envied her and did not at the same time, the ease in which she conversed was captivating, but that she must do so for so long was tiring.

Her feet had been aching for hours, and Irri now sat alone on a bench by a carefully trimmed hedge.  Kovarro and Aggo had abandoned her in favor of walking a perimeter around the garden with Malakko until Daenerys disappeared down carefully concealed steps with their host.  Kovarro gestured to the other two and followed alone, keeping a respectable distance.

The moon was high in the night sky and many of the guests had finally started to trickle away to go to their own quieter after parties when Daenerys returned with Xaro, Kavorro following up after them a minute later.  A gesture with her head had the dothraki _horde_ and Jorah following her back to their area of Xaro’s manse where they were properly dismissed for the evening.  Irri could already hear Jorah and Daenerys’ arguing before she got more than a half a dozen steps from the khaleesi’s bedroom.

By the time she had reached her own much smaller room that she shared with Doreah, she could hear the two yelling, only to abruptly go quiet again.  She knew there was nothing to worry about as she could still make out the rumblings of conversation, but the walls were too thick to make out any words.  When she opened the door to her shared room, she prepared herself to face Doreah’s snide comments, but she was not there.  In fact, now that Irri thought about it, she had not been present on their return either.

It was then that she realized where Doreah must have been.  The words from earlier entering her mind as the khaleesi told her men talk when happy.  She must have been sharing a bed with their host, Xaro, then.  The thought sickened her, not that the khaleesi would ask one of her handmaidens to do such a thing, Irri herself would have done so if asked, but that Daenerys would ask Doreah, the one woman Irri could never trust.

She went to sleep with a troubled mind and heavy heart.

The next morning, the khaleesi had her tailor the fabric given to her into something that could be used appropriately with the leathers she stilled possessed. By noon she had a unique and fashionable combination of dothraki and qarth style.  Irri thought she looked stunning.  The sky blue tailored top embroidered with silver thread was cut to accentuate hips and breasts, the two cut pieces dangling from the front and back giving her dothraki leathers beneath a feminine look without taking away any of her strength as a khaleesi.  The golden crafted jewel corseted piece that sat on top pulled it all together, making her skin and eyes shine while pulling out the exoticness of her features and hair.

Xaro came to retrieve her not soon after Doreah had just finished styling her hair in the loose fashion that was lacking in Qarth.  The younger handmaiden had returned late in the night, not trying to hide her entrance at all as she stumbled in giggling from too much wine.  Irri was surprised she was able to rise at all that morning.  When Xaro entered the courtyard of the wing that he had gifted to the khaleesi and her people a sly smile crossed Doreah’s features and Irri felt her gut clench in trepidation.

She did not like the look that had sprung in the other handmaiden’s eyes, nor the complete obliviousness to it from Daenerys’.  The khaleesi left with Xaro, Kovarro following after as Aggo took watch over the door to protect her people and dragons.  The courtyard was filled with Xaro’s men, and though they were there to guard them, or so Xaro said, she knew Daenerys was uncomfortable leaving them alone to protect her children.  If Irri was being honest herself, she was glad that Aggo stayed behind, even though he was much older than Kovarro he had also seen more battle then the other bloodrider as well.

Hours passed as Irri tended to the other outfits that the khaleesi had asked to her to mend or alter.  The dragons slept in their cages except Drogon, who crooned at her every time she looked up from her work.  She smiled softly, wise to his antics.  He did not want attention, he wanted out.  Irri knew she did not have permission to release him without the khaleesi’s permission, and yet she still found herself setting the dress aside and rising from the pillow on the floor to go over to him.

Her hand ghosted over the leather flap and Drogon crooned at her again, his red eyes big and pleading as he bobbed his head in a begging fashion.  After a moment and against permission, Irri took the cord from around the lion tooth that held the door closed and lowered it.  Drogon purred in satisfaction, and just like she thought, he pulled himself atop the cage and proceeded to ignore her completely.

She laughed softly, and was about to comment on his behavior in a fond tone but Drogon squawked in surprise and Irri felt something slip around her throat.  The cord was pulled taught and suddenly Irri could not breathe, her fingers scratching at her own neck as Doreah’s calm but satisfied tone spoke behind her.

“A trader from Qarth told me that the greatest pleasure comes with a silk cord around the neck tied very, very tight.” Doreah’s voice was almost ecstatic as Irri struggled, her throat bleeding from the gouges her nails had made in her own skin in a desperate attempt to get her fingers under the cord.  A loud screech and the banging of something heavy falling drew Doreah’s attention away and the cord suddenly went loose and Irri could finally breathe.

She collapsed on the ground, coughing and gagging as one hand held her neck and the other braced her.  Doreah’s sudden screaming drew her attention, and Irri used the table to support herself as she got to her feet and turned to face the other woman.  Drogon was flying, his tiny talons on his feet gouging at Doreah’s face as he hovered over her.  She screamed in rage, arms flailing madly as she tried to bat him from the air.  One lucky flail caught the tiny black dragon in the chest and he was catapulted out of the air and landed heavily upon the bed and did not move.

Doreah took a step towards the very still dragon and Irri felt a rage well up inside of her like never before.  She let out a scream so full of anger that Doreah turned to her startled, only to grunt as Irri threw herself into the other woman’s torso, taking them both down hard.  The hard stone caught her on her knees and arms, but Doreah took most of the hit, her head cracking loudly against the floor, stunning her long enough for Irri to get a handful of the woman’s hair and pull.

It only took a moment for Doreah to recover and soon they were both struggling on the floor, arms and hands and feet hitting anything that it could touch.  Doreah got her arm around Irri’s head and Irri retaliated by biting her.  Their fight moved them across the room and soon they were slamming into furniture.  A small table banged against the wall, the fruit platter from breakfast and knife clattered to the ground.

Irri pushed off of the other woman, getting her foot in between them and kicking her in the gut to get away.  She crawled along the floor, reaching for the knife, but a hand caught her ankle and suddenly Doreah was on top of her once more, forcing her to the ground as she straddled her back.  Two hands came around and entwined themselves in her loosely braided hair, tightening into fistfuls and pulling her head back before slamming her face into the unforgiving stone.  The first hit caught her on the forehead stunning her, the second her nose broke and by the third she finally stopped struggling completely, too disoriented and stunned to do more than lay there.

Laughing, Doreah rose long enough to flip Irri onto her back before she settled herself on Irri’s lower stomach and thighs.  The smile that twisted the younger handmaiden’s face was grotesque.  Doreah leaned forward, letting her hair cascade down around them as she stroked one hand along Irri’s damaged cheek in a parody of a lover’s caress.  She gyrated her lower body, mocking the older woman as she leaned forward and plucked the silver knife from underneath the fruit.

“You should have just died quietly,” Doreah whispered, her breathe caressing Irri’s lips before she kissed her softly, the blade stroking sensually down her throat, over one breast and around her naval.  “Now you can die slowly.” The words were soft as Doreah planted the blade tip just to the left and beneath the stomach, using her own weight to slide the blade in to the hilt.

Irri gasped, hands coming up from the floor but Doreah quickly swatted them down again.  She pulled the blade out slowly, using its bloody edges to paint designs on the exposed skin.  “A man from Lys once told me that the slowest most painful death was a blade to the stomach,” she finished the sentence with another gyration, pressing the hilt of the small knife into her own hip before using the weight of her pelvis to push the blade in again, this time on the other side.

Irri tried to scream, but the contracting of her damaged stomach muscles where too painful to do even that.  “It is known.” Doreah mocked in a thick dothraki accent as she finally stood, dropping the red stained blade next to a gasping and unmoving Irri.

It was becoming difficult to see, the room swimming in and out of focus as Doreah grabbed Drogon and threw him into a large cage that sat upon the floor.  Rhaegal and Viserion had awoken during the commotion and Irri could see that they were screeching, but she could not hear over the ringing in her own ears.

She blinked away the dark spots in her eyes, and when she opened them again Doreah and the dragons were gone.  Irri thought she must have been unconscious for a long while because the shadows had moved greatly across the floor, the sticky wetness of her blood was pooled around her and she could hear the faint sounds of a bell echoing around the manse.

Suddenly there were hands on her and her vision was swimming as her torso was pulled upright.  She felt warm fingers on her face, brushing back her hair from her bloodied face.  When her eyes finally focused, she saw that the khaleesi had pulled her into her lap, her face twisted in worry and grief.

“Irri!” Daenerys was yelling, rocking back and forth.  The word, her name, was barely heard over the dull thudding of her own slowing heart.

**_“Your dress,”_** she gasped out, trying to bring her hand up to grab the khaleesi’s own, but they felt heavy and did not move at all.  **_“You’ll get it dirty.”_**

Daenerys’ laughed, a bitter thing coated with hysteria.  **_“Do not worry about that, my old friend.”_** The words were thick and tears were starting to pour from the woman’s eyes.  Irri could not look away from them, watching as they tracked down her cheeks and caught the light of the sun from outside.  It was beautiful.  **_“Who did this to you?”_**

The question was barely heard, the thud thud thud of her heart was louder now, vibrating in her ears.  **_“It’s cold,”_** she whispered instead.  **_“I should start a fire.”_** Irri tried to do just that, but none of her limbs would cooperate.

The khaleesi sobbed and held her tighter and suddenly Irri knew she had to tell Daenerys something, but she could not remember what it was exactly.  She opened her mouth, the words heavy on her bruised throat and her tongue thick and tired.  **_“Tried to save me,”_** the words were not quite right, so she tried again.  **_“Drogon, he tried…”_** she stopped, her tongue falling to the back of her throat as she tried to swallow.  Those words were not quite right either, but they were all she had.

**_“Stay with me,”_** Daenerys was speaking again, and that was good.  If her khaleesi was speaking, then she did not have too.  **_“Just stay with me a little longer and we’ll…”_** the words choked off into a gasp followed by sobs.  **_“Just a little longer, and we’ll get you help.”_**

Irri did not know what the khaleesi was talking about.  What help did she need?  She felt fine, was she sick?  Irri tried to tell the khaleesi that nothing was wrong with her, but now her mouth was not working at all just like her limbs.  The spots were dancing around her eyes once more and the room swam as if the ground was moving.  She blinked to get them to focus, but once her eyes closed Irri realized that it was just easier to keep them that way.  After a moment, she preferred them shut so she would not have to see the room tilt and swirl.

Daenerys was speaking again, but Irri felt as if she was underwater, the words thick and coming from far away.  They begged her to open her eyes, but Irri just smiled softly instead, took one breath, then another.  Irri did not take a third and she was okay with that as well.


	4. Drogon

Drogon awoke in fits and starts.  Images and sounds filtered through to him like broken pictures in shattered frames.  He could smell the market, rich in spices and cooked meat, hear the laughter of children and baying of horses.  He saw sand and sky and paved cobblestone walkways.  The scent of Irri’s blood was still strong in his nose.

It was the cold that awoke him fully.  It bit at him, pulling the warmth away from deep within his bones and leaving a hollow feeling in its wake.  Drogon’s tail twitched in discomfort, dragging along crude stone as cold took the feeling from within him, the sound of metal clinking together, his eyes cracking open in the dim light.  He felt heavy, like he had not moved in a very long time.  There was a thick weight about his neck, dragging him down and turning his throat cold.

The darkness was near absolute, even for a dragon.  The torches along the wall cast nearly no light beyond a few feet, tiny beacons in the night illuminating wooden doors seeped in magic and revealing nothing else.

He turned his head slowly, his vision swirling and nausea clawing at his throat.  The metal sound clinked again.  He could hear his brothers next to him, but he could not see them.  They breathed deeply, the sleep of a woven magic lying heavily upon their tiny forms.  There was one upon him too and he shook his head, the thumb claw on his wing scraping down his muzzle as he fought through the spell, shedding it like a snake molted its skin.

Bit by bit it slid from him, the metal rattling together as he fought to rid himself of the magic.  Finally, it fell from him all at once leaving him reeling from the sensation of it, the stone wobbling beneath him in his own dizziness.  Drogon collapsed upon the stone plinth, there was the sound of metal dragging on stone and he realized all at once that he must be chained.

Raising his head, he turned to his brothers in the darkness and saw nothing.  Underneath the scent of cold and old dead things he could smell them, hear their tiny puffs of breath.  Drogon knew that his siblings were there, inches away upon the pedestal but his senses told him they were leagues apart.

It was the magic, trying to dull his mind and skew his senses.  But he had magic of his own - he knew from his memories of a boy that used to live in the darkness beneath the stairs - and the fire within him burned away the cold that tried to lay shackles upon his bones.  Drogon wobbled to his feet, drunk off the feeling of the warmth that suddenly flooded him.

Crooning, he called to his brothers, the sound echoing off the cold stone.  He did not know that stone could have a feeling, but these ones felt dead.  Drogon knew that rocks and minerals were never alive, but it was as if death had seeped into the very foundation of the building until the only sensation left behind was a darkness, a cold dead thing that had died ages past but still corrupted the ground and poisoned the soil even centuries later.

His brothers did not answer his call.  Once his echo died, the only sound that remained was the steady breathing of tiny lungs and a silence so thick it seemed to press upon him.  Drogon called again, shrieking and crooning and crying just to hear something at all, to drown out the thick silence and to calm his own worry in the knowledge that he could be heard.

He calmed himself after a moment, chest heaving from the exertion, the cold air scorching his throat.  Drogon’s voice crooned with every huff, unable to stand the silence and unwilling to bear it.  The chains clinked and rattled as he pulled at them, but their metal was seeped in the same cold and dead magic that permeated the room and most likely the whole building, and his struggles did nothing to loosen his bindings.

Coughing, he fought to call forth flame to alight the darkness, but only smoke filled his nostrils and no fire came to him.  The metal turned icy cold around his throat, burning colder with each attempt that coated his mouth in the flammable liquid that would not catch.  The frustration burned almost as much as the magic had.

After a while he gave up all together, though he was unsure if his attempts took minutes or hours or days.  The room seemed to eat time like it did light, playing tricks on his mind and ensnaring his senses.  His thoughts stuttered to a halt, the words echoing in his mind with a liquid voice veiling frustration and a familiarity to it that made his chest hurt in a way that the cold had not.  The voice came from a dark man with twisted words and unfailing loyalty.

Drogon could not remember him, the man with the words that brought forth a mixture of confusing feelings.  He felt annoyance, frustration, fondness, hate, sadness, and longing…but the man was gone.  Time ate away his memory and all that was left was a few phrases and the sound of his voice that even the still air could drown out.

The memory of the dark man brought forth another, and suddenly another set of words whispered in his mind and left his chest feeling like his heart had suddenly been ripped out.  _“…I promise,”_ they were soft, feminine, and gone before he could remember the rest of it.

The thoughts were pulled from him, and Drogon let them, not wanting to remember something that made him so sad.  The room was filled with his crooning, the miserable sound surprising him as he was unaware that he had been making it.  He shook himself from his wallowing, the chains rattling together as the collar slid around the base of his neck.

Crawling forward, Drogon stumbled over the ring that was embedded in the plinth before his wing bumped and slid against hide.  One of his brother’s lay before him, unmoving and cold to the touch.  He crouched, nuzzling along the scaled hide until he felt a wing and then a nose.  His brother breathed deeply, the air huffing from him nearly as cold as the room.  Drogon crooned softly, inhaling the scent of what he knew to be Rhaegal as he nuzzled and prodded the smaller green.

Rhaegal remained unconscious, his breaths undisturbed and body unmoving.  Drogon chirped in frustration, voice stuttering like a bird’s song as he hooked his thumb claw in his brother scales and pulled, rolling the green onto his side.   He crouched over him, curling his wings and cuddling into the exposed stomach, nuzzling up underneath Rhaegal’s chin as he tried to smother his brother in his own warmth.  Drogon could produce no flame, but he had his own heat within that he was more than willing to share.

Time passed as it did in the room, a moment that was an eternity, and then Rhaegal was moving beneath him.  It started with a twitch, his tail shifting and his wings rippling.  His green hide shuddered, his breath stilted, and then his brother was awake and struggling beneath him.  Drogon hissed in displeasure, snapping sharp teeth at his brother’s side until he stilled.

Even though he had awoken, the green was still much too cold.  Drogon worried about Viserion who he could hear lay on the other side of the plinth, but he dared not go to him until he was certain that Rhaegal had recovered.  He lay crouched over the smaller green like a mother brooded over her clutch though Rhaegal was nearly his own size.  Beneath him, the cold seeped out of Rhaegal as the warmth creeped back in and Drogon only relented when the green nuzzled his own chin, crooning in reply.

Drogon shifted awkwardly off of him, his leg catching beneath Rhaegal’s wing and tripping him.  Tiny talons scraped at the stone, digging into the rock and pulling him away as he sought out the smallest of his siblings.  He found Viserion much as he had Rhaegal - through blind searching - and he was as cold as his brother had been.  Drogon repeated the process, crouching atop the gold, shifting aside his wing when Rhaegal crawled in close and tucked himself against Viserion’s belly.

With two dragons providing warmth, the gold’s own heat returned quickly.  Viserion awoke loudly, his chirping call echoing around the thick darkness.  It was the call he used for their mother, it was the call all of them used, but there was no answer.  Drogon could feel their mother, her fear and anger almost a tangible thing that he could reach out and touch.  But she felt far away, and every second that passed she felt even further.

When there was no reply, Viserion changed his call.  The chirps became more stuttered, the tone dropping a bit lower as he called for Irri instead.  Drogon’s croon turned sorrowful as he remembered his mother’s handmaiden.  Her touch had been soft, her voice gentle, her words kind…and her death slow.

He had not seen much of the fight between Irri and Doreah, the blow to his chest had left him gasping, winded and stunned upon the bed as Doreah drove the blade into the soft part of Irri’s stomach, once and then once more.  Drogon had called for her as Doreah threw him into the leather cage.  He’d shrieked and cried and screamed and Irri had only gasped and bled upon stone.  Her blood had saturated the room, tainting the air and shrouding his memories into the time before.

Drogon remembered another room, the scent of blood thick and heady.  A woman lay upon the floor, wood not stone.  Her hair fanned out around her as she bled from many wounds, the blood turning her red hair black.  _“…I promise,”_ she whispered, choking on the blood that leaked into her lungs.

The woman had been young.  Older than his mother, but still well within her youth.  Only a few wrinkles were beginning to show upon her face, some around her eyes and more around the laugh lines of her smile.  Her eyes had been blue like a lake in winter, filled with tears as she gasped in pain and whispered her words.

Drogon shook his head trying to rid himself of the memories.  He shifted off of Viserion, the stone cold beneath him as the cries faded into nothing.  The flames flickered from the torches in a wind that was not there, the light did not flicker with them and Drogon felt true fear for the first time since his hatching.  They had been brought to a cold dead place and Drogon feared for what would become of them.  Would he and his siblings become cold dead things as well, he wondered.

The thoughts were driven from his mind as Viserion burrowed back underneath him, nosing under his wing, sidestepping and shoving until Drogon had moved enough for the gold to settle beneath him.  Moments later, Rhaegal was pushing his own way in and the black dragon squawked in mock complaint as he lifted a wing to allow the green to crawl into the pile.

They laid there upon the plinth, cuddling close to share heat as the cold tried crawl its way back into their bones.  The fire within them was enough to stave it off, but only if they shared it.  Time passed again, Drogon slept and woke and slept again.  As he slept, he dreamed.

Drogon saw a young girl, frustration in her every move as she stormed off, book clutched to her chest and tears in her eyes.  She yelled furiously at a pale boy before she struck him.  Ink staining her fingers and annoyance pulling her lips into a frown.  Pride in every step she took.  Sorrow in every breath that fogged the cold air.  Hunger and pain and joy and victory upon her bruised face.

A young boy rode a stone horse and then lay unmoving upon a checkered floor.  He clutched a broom one moment and a rat in another.  Face twisted in fear as large spiders fell slowly from the canopy.  Determination and betrayal and finally trust and loyalty in his heart.

An old man with twinkling eyes and a sad smile.  His words were deep and twisted, saying one thing but meaning another.  Lemons scented the air, a scarlet bird upon one shoulder and death upon the other.

A pale girl with no shoes, white hair flowing from her like liquid silver and stars in her eyes.  Everything was upside down, but she only smiled and put strange contraptions upon her face that sparkled.  Her words were disjointed but honest and her heart was pure.

Brown dirt covered the face of a brown-haired boy, a toad in one hand and a moving plant in another.  Everything about him was brown, but his smile was bright and pure.  He was gangly and awkward and cowardly until he was brave and courageous and unyielding.  A sword in hand as he stood before a great snake, blood running down his leg and determination in his eyes.

A young woman, dressed in white with yellow flowers in her red hair, laughing as she clutched his hand and said yes.  He could not remember what he had asked her, but Drogon knew that it had been the most important question he had ever asked anyone and her answer had left joy in his heart and the taste of her on his tongue.  She was there, again…gasping and pale upon the floor as she whispered her promise, but he could not hear it.  And then, between one dream and the next, she was gone.

The floor was a brown stone, covered by a glorious red rug.  A girl sat upon the window sill, a metal necklace clutched in her fist, red hair fanned out along her back in gentle waves and she turned to look at him, blue eyes the color of a lake in winter filled with sorrow, words upon her lips.  The image was pulled from him before she could speak and Drogon felt himself waking as his mother’s presence pulled him from his slumber.  He shifted and chirped until his brothers woke as well, the dreams forgotten.

They called for their mother, feeling her presence as she entered the building.  The magic was thick and dark, a malevolent thing that pulled and yanked at them, trying to steal from them everything that made them alive.  Drogon was conflicted.  He felt joy that his mother was there to save them, and fear that she too would be lost within the darkness of these stones.

His mother was so close he could feel her as if she was next to him, and yet Daenerys felt even further away than she had when she was outside of the building.  The magic was pulling at her too, and every second she spent within this dark place the further away she traveled until Drogon could hardly feel her at all.

He called to her, screaming and shrieking as he tried with all his might to be heard through the stifling silence and he knew at once that he was failing.  Daenerys had pulled away so far that it felt like she was but one of his memories, faded and stilted from the time before.  His cries could not penetrate the thick quiet that permeated the room.

Drogon had almost given up when his brothers voices added to his own, their shrieks echoing and cascading off the stone to join the clamor and finally he could feel her.  Daenerys was moving closer, every breath he took to cry out she became more tangible and more real.  He cried out louder, the screeches scoring his throat and leaving him raw but he could not stop.  If he stopped now Daenerys would be lost in the cold magic and they would be lost with her.

And then, between one loud cry and the next, she was there.


	5. Sansa

“May the Seven guide the princess on her journey,” the High Septon droned.  His voice carried out over the dock, drowning out the sound of oars churning the sea water and Tommen sniveling quietly next to them.  Sansa kept her face impassive and sympathetic, though it was not hard.  She had truly cared for Myrcella and had come to even adore her.  The young girl was sweet and endearing in a way that not many were, her smile always true and her kindness never faked.  In King’s Landing that was quite a rare thing indeed.

And now she was gone.

Sansa felt her chest tighten, straining to breathe in the corset that her handmaidens had tied a little too snug.  Her body was changing, finally the dresses the queen had given her did not look so ridiculous.  She had spent days tailoring them to her changing figure and she had seen several men at court eyeing her appraisingly.  Dread filled her when she thought what the queen would do to her when she found out.  Even Joffrey had given her a few side glances.

She was not unaware of her own failings.  Sansa knew that her sorrow of the princess leaving was not because she would miss the sweet girl’s company but because she had spent so much time and effort trying to appease her to gentle the queen.  It had worked, after a fashion and for a time.  Cersei had tempered herself when her daughter had been present, but she found other ways to make Sansa miserable.

Carefully constructed humiliations that stung in ways that Ser Meryn’s blows never had.

The High Septon continued, words spoken that Sansa had heard a thousand times before in the Sept but for the first time, she was not listening.  The Seven were southron gods, and Sansa Stark was of the north, more so now then she ever had living in Winterfell.  She had thought herself a Tully fish, but in truth she was a wolf, always had been…she just had not known it until she was surrounded by lions.  A fish would have been devoured long ago.  A lone wolf however, though surrounded by the pride, was still a dangerous thing.

Near her position slightly behind the king, she could see Cersei and her dwarf brother, Tyrion, exchanging words.  Cersei looked just as she always did, beautiful and composed, not a hair or expression out of place.  Sansa though, knew the queen better than most.  ‘ _But not as well as others,’_ she thought as she watched Tyrion’s face twist into something resembling distaste as his sister spoke to him.

There was a sheen to Cersei’s light green eyes that Sansa once thought made her look more alluring and mysterious.  She had learned since then.  Cersei was displaying contempt and hatred with her eyes.  Her lips were pulled down slightly at the corners, making her appear coy but the reality was much more horrible.  Sansa did not want to think upon what made the queen appear as such, the last time she had seen that expression had been at a rather mortifying public feast where Joffrey had been displeased with her choice of gown.  He had presented her with another more beautiful gown and Sansa had taken it timidly, enamored with the vibrant color, soft silk, and delicate embroidery.

“I’ll go change at once, your grace,” she had said, fingers caressing the fabric as a servant held it out before her.

“No, you’ll change here.”  Joffrey had commented slyly, snapping his fingers to summon her handmaidens.  The four gifted to her by the queen rushed immediately to her side, untying the back of her dress before she had realized what was happening.  Shae was slower to follow.

Her face had burned red with the shame as they stripped her there before the gathered lords and ladies.  All eyes had been on her, the queen giving her that twisted sinister smile that pulled her lips down, not up, satisfaction in every subtle twitch and expression.  The air around her was sinister, the same shade as her twisted son.

Shae had tried to discreetly shield her.  The Lorathi handmaiden stood in front of her as much as possible, blocking the view of Sansa in her corset and small clothes as the other women took their precious time pulling the new gown into place.  Sansa had tried to look at anything but the people who watched her, and it was then that she noticed that not everyone was.  Tyrion Lannister, interim hand of the king, was staring intently at his wine goblet.  The dwarf’s squire had the darkest blush on anyone’s face that Sansa had ever seen and he looked even more mortified and humiliated than she had, his eyes darting from the floor to the wall and then back to the floor.  She caught his gaze once when his eyes flitted accidently in her direction and she felt almost sorry for him as his blush deepened his expression twisted into horrified.

The sell sword in the hand’s service, a rough looking man named Bronn, gave her no more than a cursory glance before he resumed his silent guard.  He looked almost bored with the whole proceeding which comforted Sansa in a small way.  The Hound was also not watching, just as he had not that day Joffrey had her stripped and beaten before the court.

As the other women were lacing up the back of her gown and Shae was tying the front, Sansa felt something in her shift.  She felt her emotions changing, the feeling of humiliation and embarrassment slid out of her and anger replaced the hole they left.  Shae had taken one look at her expession and pinched the exposed flesh on her arm hard as she moved to block Sansa’s face from the court.

Sansa’s gaze snapped to the Lorathi, her eyes filling with tears from the sudden pain and Shae only smiled at her and whispered for her to be careful.  The anger left her just as suddenly as the humiliation had and Sansa let the tears come to her eyes and even allowing one to spill down one cheek.  “Better,” Shae said softly, her lips barely moving at all as she moved to the side, letting those seated at the tables see her raise one darkly tanned hand to brush away the tear.

Cersei had glowed with satisfaction at the sight of Sansa’s pain.  Joffrey had smiled darkly, his eyes sparkling with arousal and Sansa could not decide if it was from her undress or her emotional distress.  After a moment, she decided that she did not want to know.  Any interest Joffrey showed in her was something to cause concern, no matter what that interest was.

The queen had that look now and Sansa averted her eyes quickly before Cersei realized she had been staring.  The boat was nearly out of the bay, Myrcella a golden beacon on the water, tears shining from her eyes but still she looked regal and proper.  She did her duty without argument, allowed herself to be shipped off with hardly a word of complaint…a perfect lady, a perfect princess.  Sansa admired the younger girl for that and she may have even hated her just a little as well.

Myrcella was going to Dorne, away from King’s Landing and the king and Cersei.  Away from the lords and ladies of the court who tittered and laughed with malicious eyes as Joffrey humiliated her before them.  Away from everything that was poison in the realm.  Sansa wanted to be on that boat with her, wanted to sail away to Dorne or White Harbor, Lys or Volantis or Asshai.  Anywhere that was not here.

It was ironic, the one girl leaving who wanted to stay and Sansa staying when all she wanted to do was leave.

“Stop your blubbering!” Joffrey snapped and Sansa flinched, taking a small step back and bumping into the Hound.  Clegane steadied her with one gauntlet covered fist, his grip hard but not painful, and she realized that Joffrey had not been speaking to her but to his brother.  “You sound like a little cat mewling for his mother, princes don’t cry.”

He was a liar, Sansa did not have to look at him to know that.  She had seen him cry when Nymeria had savaged his arm and again when the maester had treated his wound.  A large part of her wished Nymeria had gone for his neck instead of his wrist.  The smaller part that was left wished the direwolf had gone for the groin.

Tommen’s caretaker, an elderly woman that Sansa had seen around the keep but never in court, kneeled before the young prince and dabbed at the tears that ran down his cheeks.  When Joffrey turned, calling the Hound after him as he started up the steps, Sansa slowed her pace and put an arm around Tommen’s shoulder to guide him.  She would never had done so had anyone else been watching, but the queen was far ahead at the front of their procession and Sansa was near the back.

“It’s alright,” Sansa whispered quietly, glancing behind her as the last of the Lannister guards fell into place.  “My brother cried when I left for King’s Landing.”

“Really?” Tommen questioned just as softly, voice wavering as the caretaker gave her a disapproving look.  The younger boy was nearly as tall as she was and soon he would be taller.

“I don’t care what your brother says,” Sansa murmured so others could not overhear.  “I think it is perfectly normal to cry for your sister.”  Tommen smiled up at her, his expression wavering through his grief.  Sansa was surprised with the feeling of protectiveness that welled up inside her.  She had always liked Tommen, there was something endearing about his naivete.  “There is nowhere safer for Myrcella in all the realms.  Not even the dragons could conquer Dorne,” Sansa reassured him, her fingers softly tracing the gold embroidery upon the prince’s shoulder.  Her eyes darted to the front of the column, her heart skipping a beat in fear as she sought out Cersei and Joffrey to make certain that their attention was not on her…but she could not see them.

The Hound was a large man, the largest in their group as they made their way through the streets of the city.  He was clad in his black armor and white cloak stained with mud, wine, and other things she would rather not know.  When her gaze darted for the king and his queen mother, Sansa only saw the Hound’s back draped with that dirty cloak and she felt her fear leave her like water off a sea bird.  If she could not see them, then they could not see her.

The caretaker was walking slightly ahead, her feet moving quickly as she took small fluid steps that made her appear to glide.  Every few tiny paces, her brown eyes darted back to the prince and Sansa, and it was only after they had left the docks and entered the streets did she realize that the elderly woman was afraid.

_‘She fears the queen as well,’_ Sansa thought as a tight feeling welled up in her throat.  The woman would be punished, she knew, if the queen found out that she had let the traitor’s daughter talk to her son unsupervised.

Squeezing Tommen’s shoulder once more, Sansa gave him a tight smile before gently pushing him forward ahead of her.  The prince smiled back through watery tears and jogged further up the column, his caretaker raising her skirts to follow after.

The streets narrowed as they passed under a foot bridge, the tall buildings rising up around them to cast the procession all in shade.  Her shoulders that had warmed from the sun now felt too cool and she shivered.  They passed houses and markets, public bath houses and taverns.  But mostly they passed people.

There were men and woman of all ages, dressed in muted colors and filth.  She could smell them, even through the perfume that had been splashed on her skin and hair.  Their stench was heavy, thick and coiling in the air in the way that she had never experienced before coming to the capitol.  Although the north had fewer luxuries then the south, the one thing she missed most aside from her family and the halls she grew up in, was the smell.

Winterfell had the scent of dogs and horses, the smell of iron melting in the blacksmith’s fire, baked bread, roasting meat, and the cold scent of winter.  There had been the underlying scent of unwashed bodies and even filth, but it was something in the background, barely noticeable beneath everything else.  In King’s Landing it was the filth that came first.

Whenever the queen was required to leave the red keep she carried with her a linen pouch full of dried flowers that had been soaked in perfumed water.  Every dozen steps she raised it to her nose to cover the stench.  Part of Sansa was envious, wishing she too had the forethought to have made a perfumed bag, but the larger part of her was offended on behalf of the people.  This was Cersei’s city, hers to protect and hers to care for.  Instead of making the effort to give her people better living conditions, she covered it up and hid behind her finery, not even trying to mask her actions.  It was insulting.

When Sansa had ridden over that last hill within the carriage, the capitol sprawled out before them in the distance framed in the horizon nearly a mile off.  The red keep stunning against the blue sky and Sansa had instantly fallen in love.  When they got closer and the wind changed she had nearly gagged as the stench filled the tiny wheel wagon.  The queen had laughed at her, pearly white teeth glinting in the window light, pinks lips pulled back in a smile that Sansa had thought was as gentle as she was.

She had been so stupid then.  Sansa did not think she was much better now, but the truth had opened her eyes so that at least she could _see_.

Her blue eyes darted to the gathering crowd that watched the royal procession pass by.  It struck her how thin they all were.  Sansa herself was careful to never overeat, her mother’s lessons on how she was to maintain herself in order to keep herself desirable to wed a lord.  But she was soft, soft in a way that only the highborn are.  These people that watched them from the windows, doors, and alleyways were thin and hard in a way she had never noticed before.

She pitied them, she realized.  The people of Winterfell had never looked as those that surrounded her now, not even the poorest of them.  Her father had kept them fed and taken care of.  Here in the capitol, they were not shown the same kind of care.  Eddard Stark had once told her and her siblings what it was like to be a lord.  He had said it was like being a father, but your children are all the people who live within your borders.  The cook was your child, the baker, the merchant, even the farmers that tended the fields and the whores that tended the men.  When you cared for your people like they were your own children, then it was hard not to treat them as such.

The citizens of King’s Landing were not anyone’s children other than to those they were born to.  The queen saw them as her servants, slaves to do her biding when she demanded and disappear from her view when not.  The king saw them as playthings, his to torment and abuse for his entertainment whenever he so desired.

“Hail, Joffrey!” A voice shouted out, carrying over the hush that had fallen wherever the royal party went throughout the city.  Other calls were yelled over the crowed, drowning out the sounds of discontent.

Sansa fisted her fingers in the material of her dress and she raised the front to take longer steps as the air around her turned dark and angry.  She fixed her gaze to the ground, afraid to look up and see the hatred, afraid to make eye contact and see despair.  “Murderer!” Someone screeched between the praises and blessings being graced to the king.  “Bastard!” Another cry joined in.

“Please, Your Grace, we’re hungry!”

Her eyes were drawn back to the crowd, darting between one gaunt hungry face and another.  Movement at the front of the column pulled her gaze away and she saw the caretaker with Tommen and his guard separate from the group and veer down a narrow alley.

She gazed after them, watching as one of the Lannister men - armored in red mail - take position at the entrance of the alley and Sansa wished briefly that she could follow.  She would squeeze the small gap between man and stone and follow the prince back to the lie that was the keep and hide away from the truth that was the city.  But she knew that the guard would never let her…that if he did, Cersei would find a way to punish her, and Joffrey would find a way to hurt her more than he already had.

Sansa kept walking, following the procession as the guards fanned out around them and her handmaidens fluttered closer.

Something flew from the crowd and struck the king across the face.  It fell in pieces around him, decorating his cheek in a dark smudge and Sansa realized quite suddenly that someone had thrown animal dung at him.

“Who threw that!” Joffrey shrieked in outrage, his voice cracking over the words.  “I want the man who threw that!  Find who did that and bring him to me!”  He had halted during his yelling, his jeweled finger pointing at the ground before him to emphasize his point.  It made him look childish and sullen.

The guards were yelling around them as the crowd surged forward.  Joffrey was screaming to kill them all and suddenly the line broke.  A guard in red went down, moments later the crowd was pushing through the gap before the other guards even realized there was a hole.  In seconds Sansa and her handmaidens were alone, surrounded on all sides by a mob of the angry and the starving.  She heard screaming behind her but she dared not turn around.

Stumbling through the crowd of shouting peasants, Sansa sought desperately for a way out or a building to hide in.  One of her handmaidens had disappeared in the fray and another was swallowed up by the crowd just as Sansa reached for her.  The two left were clutching at her, fingers digging into her arms so hard she knew they would leave bruises that would last days.

Tripping over a severed arm, Sansa stumbled into a wall and suddenly she found that she was alone.  She looked around frantically, her red hair coming loose from the braids and whipping her on the cheek, but all she saw were the faces of strangers.  She turned back around, hand on the hard stone so she did not lose her way, and ran straight into a man whose face was twisted in sick pleasure and the air around him was colored in lust and hate.

She was frozen, partly in fear but also in confusion.  He gazed at her like she was the one who was responsible for his plight.  She wanted to speak him, wanted to explain, but mostly, she wanted to run.  Between on breath and the next she was through a door and fleeing down the hall and kitchen of a bakery.  When she glanced behind her the man was following and he was not alone.

She darted around a table and through another door, hands fisted in her gown as she descended steps and ascended more, and still they followed.  Bursting through another door made of rotten wood, she twisted around a corner and stopped.  The stables were without horses and without an exit.

Turning, she saw the men standing in the archway from where she had come and Sansa knew that she was trapped.  They smiled twisted smiles at her with broken teeth and sinister intent.  Backing away, Sansa’s hands shook as they approached, eyes darting around for an exit or a weapon or anything.  “Where are you going?” The first man taunted and Sansa struck him, her fingers curved as her nails bit into his cheek.  They left deep gauges, the skin giving way easily beneath her long nails and the man cried out as blood welled up into the wounds and spilled.

She expected the backhand, had even braced for it, but the blow landed so heavily that she felt her lip split and her neck throb as her head whipped around and she tumbled face first into the straw covered stone.  The blow stung more than the fall, but the clarity it brought her chased away the pain.  She knew what they intended to do to her, what men like them did to girls like her.

A heavy weight fell on her back and the sour stench of stale wine filled her nose as the man whispered in her ear.  “You ever been fucked, little girl?” And suddenly they were pulling her back, their grips on her ankles as they dragged her across the stone.  Her hands dug through the straw, fingernails breaking on the stone as she tried to claw away from them.  Her palm struck something wooden and she gripped it without thought, but before she could learn what it was, they had flipped her onto her back and a thin man with straggly brown hair was leaning over her and holding her wrists down.

“Please!” She begged as they pulled her skirts up and gripped her leggings.  “No, no! Please!” But they only laughed as she felt her stockings and small clothes being yanked down her legs.  The man over her leaned forward to pull her dress open at the front and a darkness took over her.  They were going to rape her, she knew, but she was a Stark of Winterfell.  She was a wolf and she would not let them take her without a fight.

Sansa did not know when she had moved, but as the man pulled the rest of her gown open, she had lunged upwards and suddenly her mouth was filled with blood as she clamped her jaw down tight and dug her teeth into the man’s neck.  She could hear him screaming, he pulled back and she spit out the chunk of flesh that came away from him…then her hands were free.

She gripped the wooden handle of what she now saw was a hoof knife and she swung her fist up.  Sansa had never used one, but she had seen many around the stables of Winterfell.  The sharpened metal parted flesh easier than her teeth had and the hoof knife was buried deep in the screaming man’s neck and suddenly he was not screaming anymore.

Her face felt hot from the splattered blood and her hand slick.  The man fell backwards and the wet blood made her fingers slip, the handle sliding from her grip.  The men around her paused and she fought to scramble away, but they did not give up their grip like she had.

She screamed as her small clothes tore and the man kneeling between her legs pulled himself from his dirty trousers.  With one man dead, there was one less pair of hands holding her down and Sansa kicked and clawed and shrieked as they fought to contain her.  Then, quite suddenly, the man who was between her forcefully spread thighs jerked upwards, a look of shock and pain flashing over his face as blood leaked between his lips and he slumped over, dead.

The Hound stood behind him, his black armor covered in blood and white cloak gone.  He either lost it in the fighting or had removed it to keep it from tying him up and getting in the way.  Clegane shoved the dead man aside so he fell to the side of Sansa as opposed to on top of her.

The other two men let her go, the oldest crawling away to huddle in the corner as Clegane lifted the younger by his neck and gutted him.  Sansa twisted onto her front, crawling through the blood covered straw.  The man she had stabbed was still gasping, his mouth moving open and closed like a fish as he choked on his own blood, hand grasping at the knife in his throat.  Sansa only let the sight of him stop her for a moment, but her anger kept her moving forward.

He was going to violate her, take her maidenhood and leave her either soiled and dishonored or dead.  The man looked at her, greasy unwashed hair plastered to his sweaty face and eyes wild with fear.  She did not know if he feared her or death, but in the end it did not matter.  He reached for her with grasping fingers as she reached for the hoof knife and twisted.  Pupils dilated and his eyes lost focus as his vision left.

She gripped the wooden handle, fingers tight as they slipped before finding purchase, and she yanked it out.  The blood spurted from the wound like a pulsing fountain, each spray less than the last, before it was only a trickle and the man died.

It shocked her how his death did not surprise her.  It did not even slow her down.  She was on her feet, dress open at the front and leggings twisted around her ankle.  There was a wet thud as the Hound dropped his victim, the dead body landing in his own entrails.  She stood there, staring at the body as steam rose from the open wound.  Clegane looked at her, stuffing his bloody knife back into the sheath as he stepped over the would-be rapist and approached her.

He had a cloth in his armored hand and he wiped it down her neck and across her mouth, smearing the blood more than cleansing her of it.  The air around him looked uncertain, his eyes strained as he took in her appearance.  She could only imagine what she looked like, wild eyed and crazed, covered in blood and so furious she was surprised the air around her did not shimmer in the heat she felt.

Clegane was unsettled, she realized.  Not that she was nearly raped or had killed, but by the blood that decorated her delicate skin.  Sansa was a little bird, a delicate porcelain doll to be dressed as the queen pleased and sing the words the queen demanded.  Violence was something that happened to her and around her, it was not something that she caused.  And the blood was splashed on her skin as proof, a war paint of her victory.  Clegane tried to rid her of that proof, of her triumph.

Setting her jaw she raised her head and stared down at him, daring him to comment at the man who lay dead at her feet by her own hands.  There was a long moment of silence and for the first time, Sansa believed that Clegane was no longer seeing the little bird but he had gotten his first glimpse of the wolf that lay deep beneath.

The Hound blinked and the moment was over, the wolf caged once more and Clegane took back the ragged cloth and stepped aside.  She bent to pull her small clothes and leggings back up as he put one gauntleted hand on her elbow and started to lead her around the two men he had killed.  “Come on, little bird.  Back to your cage.”

A whimper in the corner drew her attention and the Hound’s hand clamped harder on her arm, dragging her away.  Sansa stopped, the hem of her gown brushing entrails as she stared at him.  “Come on,” Clegane barked, not unkindly as he gave her another tug.  “Leave him.”

She took a few halting steps towards the exit, but her eyes were fixed on the sniveling man.  He was old, perhaps older than her father, his friends blood decorated his face in tiny drops, and he was cowering away from their bodies.  That red hot anger was back as she looked at his pathetic form, crouched and huddling in the corner.

How _dare_ he act like he was the victim when he had held her down and tore off her small clothes.  How _dare_ he cower and whimper after he had ignored her screams and pleads of mercy.

In seconds the bird was gone and the wolf was back.  She tore her arm from Clegane’s grip and darted away from him on quick feet before he could turn and seize her again.  The hoof knife was still in her hand, the blood turning tacky and cold in the humid air and she tightened her fingers around it so it would not slip.  Before Clegane realized her intentions, she was on the sniveling man and then the blood covering her fingers was warm.  Sansa brought the knife down again and again and again as the man screamed and tried to shield himself with his thin pale arms until they fell to his sides and was still as the rest of him.

Sansa kept stabbing him.

The blade slid through the soft flesh on the belly, chipped off the ribs and stuttered around the sternum.  Her hand slipped on the slick wood and the blade sliced open her palm and still she kept stabbing him.  She only stopped when a mailed arm wrapped around her stomach and yanked her off the man.  There was still screaming, so loud that her ears rang and she realized that it was coming from her.

Kicking and thrashing, she clawed uselessly at the armored grip, screaming profanities as she threw the hoof knife.  It swung widely through the air, arching and twisting before clattering loudly against the stone wall and falling into the spreading pool of blood.

“He’s dead!” Clegane shouted, pulling her out of the stable and into the alleyway.  “He’s dead, girl.”  Cold stone met her back as the Hound shoved her against the wall, keeping her there with a gauntlet pressed to her shoulder.  “Look at me!” He snapped, and Sansa - wild eyed and furious - did.

The burned half of his face was pulled tight, the skin over his right eye drooping.  The other side was frowning, his teeth bared as he shoved her back into the wall when she tried to move.  “He’s dead,” his voice was softer, the shouting and screaming from the mob seemed so far away but she could see them at the entrance of the narrow alley only a dozen paces away.

She stood there panting, the words taking a long moment to sink in.  When the rage left her and the panting slowed, Sansa began to shake.  “He’s dead,” she whispered back and Clegane nodded as he finally released her, stepping back to give her room.  “He’s dead, oh gods…I killed…I.”

“You did nothing,” Clegane snapped as she stuttered and stumbled, horrified at her actions.  “You listening, girl.  You did nothing.  Those men tried to rape you, and I killed them.”

“But I-”

“ _I_ killed them,” he spoke over her, voice harsh as he gestured to himself.  His armored finger clanging against his mail as he tapped his chest in a quick staccato.  “You understand me, you laid there and cried and I butchered them like pigs.  Now tell me, what did I do?”

“Yo-you,” she stuttered, blue eyes darting from the burned side of his face to the unscarred one.  Taking a deep breath, she felt tears come to her eyes.  “You killed them,” she whispered, face slack and mouth open like she had witnessed something terrible and could not believe it.  “You killed them,” her voice was watery as it trembled and tears spilled down her face.

“That’s better,” Clegane murmured, wiping the blood from her chin with mailed fingers.  “Now cage that wolf before someone sees.”

He did not need to tell her that.  The wolf was already gone and the bird was back, trembling and terrified in her gilded cage.  Clegane tugged at the opened front of her gown and Sansa realized then how exposed she was.  She tied it closed quickly, taking a few steps towards the entrance of the alley as she followed the Hound.

Frowning, she looked down at her bare feet on the rough cobblestone and Clegane turned back quickly, a long sigh passing his lips.  “What now,” the exasperation was thick in his voice and in the air.  She stared at him for a moment, face blank of all emotions before she turned her gaze back to her bare feet.  Sansa wondered when she had lost her boots.

His eyes followed and he grunted in annoyance.  “You’ve gotta be joking,” the words passed his lips like a sigh as he approached her in quick steps.  She did not flinch back, marveling at her new lack of fear of him.  Clegane grasped her arm as he bent, hoisting her over his shoulders as he drew his sword and then they were back in the crowd.  He only set her down once they crossed the bridge into the keep.

“Someone take her back to her cage,” Clegane spoke loudly over the din of guards hollering commands.  She was placed on a bench, her missing handmaidens fluttering to her side and fawning over her.  Sansa tried to ignore how unruffled they looked, barely a hair out of place while her dress had been torn and covered in blood.  “See to that cut.”

The woman gripped her arms and hands with delicate fingers and led her away, her bare feet on the smooth stone unnoticed.  They took her back to her rooms and she said not a word the entire time.  Not when a maester stitched the cut on her hand.  Not when they stripped her for a bath and discreetly checked her with invasive fingers in order to report to the queen that her honor was still intact.  And not when they pushed her under her sheets and told her to sleep.

She would have been angry if she had not been so scared.  Only the wolf was allowed to be angry.  The bird could do no more than tremble and sing and hide.  Sansa was a bird, but now she knew that she could be a wolf too.

The days that followed were disjointed and skewed, as if she was looking at the reflection of her life through a broken mirror.  Life seemed to go on in the keep and the city, just like it always had.  She waited days for the queen to summon her, to question her of the two men she had killed, but no summons came.

Sansa spent several days in her room in self confinement, afraid that if she left those doors she would hear about her doings upon the lips of those who knew nothing of what truly happened.  She was afraid that if she left those doors, she would become the wolf again and she was afraid that she would not.

But nothing happened, nothing at all.  And Sansa supposed that in a way it was worse.

Shae pulled her from her bed on the fifth day, her darker hands grabbing at her bare arms in a grip that stung even after she let go and yanking her across the floor and into the tub of a bath she had never requested.  Her most trusted handmaiden dumped her in the water still dressed in her sleeping gown and Sansa would have shrieked like a drowned cat if it had not felt so wonderful.

“Have you stopped wallowing?” Shae snapped as she stepped forward, pulling off her sodden sleep gown and throwing it by the unlit fire with a wet plop.

Sansa turned to her, eyes sliding around the room as she realized Shae must have sent the other women away as they were alone.  Something in the Lorathi’s voice, the underlying sound of mockery, stung her.  “I was not wallowing.”

“Yes,” Shae replied quickly, sluicing her skin with fine wet sand and Sansa was amazed at how much dirt came off her body even though she had not left her room.  “You were wallowing, and now you are done.” Sansa laid back against the copper tub, stretching her legs before her where they had been tucked beneath.  Shae was right, she realized and so Sansa let her continue to chastise her.  She deserved it.

“The queen has demanded your presence for morning meal to break your fast.” The silence stretched after the words.  Sansa’s lack of fear at a meeting with the queen surprised her.  “Do you think you are the only girl that was attacked?” Shae continued, tugging Sansa’s head back, pulling her hair out over the edge and toeing an empty pot beneath.  Her red hair was so long it nearly touched the inside.  She felt warm water flow over her head as Shae tilted a pitcher over her and soaked her hair through. 

“Attacked was not exactly how I would put it,” fingernails scratched at her scalp in gentle trails and Sansa sighed in pleasure, closing her eyes and relaxing for the first time since the riot.

“And how would you put it?” Shae questioned, pouring more water over her hair before she lathered a soap into it.

“They tried to…” she trailed off, unable to finish and feeling embarrassed that she could not bring it to words.

There was a long silence as Shae gently tugged out the knots in her hair, fingers surprisingly gentle for someone who had never been a handmaiden before, though the Lorathi would still deny it even if they both knew she was lying.  “They tried to _rape_ you,” Shae emphasized, lifting the pitcher to wash out the soap.  “But they didn’t.”

“They would have,” Sansa admitted softly, mostly to herself as if confessing a great secret.

“But they didn’t,” Shae restated, setting aside the jug and twisting Sansa’s hair up and tying it out of the way to finish her bath.  She arose from the small stool, taking the pot to dump out the water and grabbing a washcloth on the way back.  Sansa watched her with vivid blue eyes, her gaze tracking the darker woman from one area to the next.  Shae had a way of moving that was enticing to watch, the sway of her hips elegant and enthralling.  Sansa wished she knew how to move that way.

“No,” Sansa replied after a long moment.  “They didn’t.”  She turned back around, the water sloshing nearly over the edges as she settled.  “Are they talking about it?”

“Talking about what?” Shae asked in that accented voice, her tongue pronouncing the words delicately.  She retook her seat, dipping the cloth in the cooler but still warm water and started to draw it across Sansa’s skin.

“About what happened,” she raised her arm to give Shae better access.  “What are they saying about me?”  Part of her did not want to know what those at court were whispering about her, what the queen had been saying.  But she must know before breaking her fast with the queen.

“They say that men attacked you and now those men are dead,” Shae answered after a long moment and Sansa echoed the last word quietly.  “They say the Hound came back for you when no one else would, and he killed them.  They say he carried you through the riot unharmed and that he returned you to the keep covered in the blood of the men he slayed.” Her words were pastel blue with bored truth.

_‘He slayed,’_ she thought to herself, not daring to breathe the words and bring questions to them.  _He…_

Shae rose and grabbed a towel on the nearby dresser.  She dried her hands with it first before she brought it over.  Holding it open, she beckoned Sansa out of the tub and after a long pause, Sansa did as she was bid though she did so reluctantly.  She was unsure if it was because of the glorious heat of the water or her unwillingness to be in the toxic presence of the queen.  But she did rise and Shae toweled her down quickly, wiping the water from her body with an efficiency that kept her from getting cold.  Seconds later she was bundled up in a robe and sitting before her vanity as Shae combed out her hair.

It was curious, she thought as she gazed upon her own reflection.  The mirror was unbroken, her reflection solid and her gaze unwavering.  Her eyes looked hard and her face set…she could not let the queen see her this way.  She took a deep breath, eyes flitting to her lap before she closed them.  The memory of her father’s last moments flitted behind her eyelids and she let that feeling of helplessness wash over her once more.  When she looked back at the solid mirror, her reflection was broken.

Shae made an approving noise behind her, twisting her hair into a simple braid that was not quite southron but also not northern.  Sansa wondered if it was a style of Lorath, but she did not truly care enough to ask.  Her handmaiden dressed her, clasped a simple necklace with a tiny dove around her throat, and escorted her out into the hall.  The queen had gifted it to her months ago, no doubt her idea of a joke.

Sansa paused at the threshold, the sight of the two Lannister guards on either side giving her pause.  They did not look at her, did not even spare a glance as she exited her room.  When she continued down the hall they followed a few dozen paces behind, their metal armor rattling with every step.

Shae stayed behind, closing the heavy wooden door to her chamber with a dull thud.  Sansa felt her heart leap into her throat with the sound, wishing she could be behind it with her handmaiden, but she continued anyway.  It was a long walk to the side of the keep that hosted the royal family, but it was over much too soon and before she knew it, Sansa was standing before the queen and her youngest son.

They were sat at a small oaken table that had enough room for eight, but it was only set for three.  The lack of a fourth plate made her anxiety ease…Joffrey would not be joining them.  Tommen’s presence was also a blessing, but it did not comfort her as it would have.  The queen’s smile, her lips slightly turned up but her eyes frowning, brought back that wretched feeling of dread.

Her heart was beating so loudly that she thought for sure the queen could hear it, Sansa barely remembered her courtesies.  She lowered her head, curtsied, mumbled a “Your Grace,” and a “My Prince,” before approaching the food laden table.  The queen was sitting at the high end, her son at the side to her right, and Sansa took her seat across from Tommen when Cersei gestured to it with an absent wave of her hand.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, broken mostly by the sound of their utensils on the dishware and goblets being set upon the wood.  Sansa ate little, the anxiety eating a hole in her stomach as the silence stretched.  When she did look up, it was only to glance around the table and occasionally send a soft smile at Tommen when she caught him smiling at her.  Not once did she look the queen’s way, not until Cersei spoke to her near the end of their meal.

“It was a terrible thing,” the queen’s voice soft, her mouth forming the words like silk.  “What happened to you,” Sansa looked to her, watching as the older woman lifted her glass goblet, take a slow sip, and lean back into her engraved wooden chair.  She kept ahold of her wine, the stem dancing between one hand and the other, her fingers caressing the glass in an intimate way that was both enthralling and distracting.  “What _almost_ happened,” she smiled, the words mocking.

“Yes,” Sansa’s voice was not a squeak, but it was close.  “I thank the gods every day that Joffrey – King Joffrey,” she corrected quickly at the dark look that passed Cersei’s eyes, “sent the Hound back for me.”

“Yes, he did,” Cersei pronounced carefully, taking a large gulp of wine.  “And how are you doing, after your _terrible_ ordeal.”

Sansa knew that the queen was not truly interested in what had happened to her, she was not even interested in how she was dealing with it.  Cersei was mocking her, her disdain in her words clear for even Tommen to hear.

“Fine, Your Grace,” she replied quickly as she watched the queen’s eyes grow bored.  Sansa did not elaborate and Cersei did not ask her too.

“And your hand?”

“Fine, Your Grace,” she repeated.

There was a long silence again, and Sansa went back to eating as it stretched, chewing slowly to make it appear as if she was eating more than she had.  “Tommen was telling me about your kind words,” Cersei broke the quiet once more, and Sansa found both herself and the prince looking at the queen.  “Before the riot,” she added as if in afterthought, though Sansa knew that the words and pace in which she spoke was intentionally down to the very pronunciation and cadence.  And they did what they intended to do, struck fear in her heart.

Tommen blushed hotly, the red scoring his cheeks and down his neck to continue under his fine golden tunic.  Sansa forgave him instantly.  She knew he had not told his mother to cause harm or be spiteful and could not have known how that knowledge would have been used against her.  The air around him turned soft green with shame and Sansa felt nothing but sympathy for him.

She glanced back at the queen, watched her hard eyes scrutinizing her and she realized quite suddenly that the queen was expecting an answer though the question had not been asked.  “I only meant to offer comfort, Your Grace,” Sansa began hesitantly, the words coming to her without thought but she knew them to be the right ones.  “Rickon cried when I left Winterfell and I only wanted to assure him that it’s not something to be ashamed of,” she paused here, knowing that one misword could mean the end of her.  “If I overstepped myself, I apologize, Your Grace.”

Cersei was still looking at her, swishing her wine in a circular motion.  She was trying to come to some sort of decision, trying to make up her mind about something, but Sansa did not know what it was.  After a long moment where Sansa thought her heart was going to beat straight out of her chest, Cersei turned back to her meal and that was it.  Whatever she had decided it appeared that for the moment there would be no ill effects for Sansa herself and the rest of the meal was finished in silence.

Her guards were gone when she left the private dining room of the royal family.  Sansa gave only a cursory glance down the hallways before she set off to her own room.  The way was nearly deserted, she only passed a few servants and fewer guards who spared her not even a glance.  Descending the steps, she entered a long open hallway that had large arched windows framing the garden below.

The view was lovely, green and bright with blooming flowers and painted butterflies.  It would not last, she knew, for winter was coming, and these pretty delicate flowers had no protection from the ice and snow like the glass gardens of Winterfell did.

So distracted was she that she did not notice the Hound before he had nearly passed her by.  “Beg your pardon, Ser,” she called after him, fingers fisted in the skirt of her gown as she twirled to face him.  He paused in the hall, facing away from her for several long seconds before turning.

“Don’t _Ser_ me,” he snapped, stepping towards her so they were only a pace apart.  “I’m no knight.” She stared at him and said nothing, watching the air around him turn annoyed and curious, a spectrum of greens and oranges that looked like a sunset over a forest.  It distracted her long enough that the air turned more green and Clegane lost his patience.  “What do you want girl?”

She brought her attention back to him, sliding her eyes to his mutilated face and away from the colored air around him.  “Forgive me, I have been distracted as of late,” he snorted in derision at her.  His mockery did not anger her like Cersei’s had.  “I wanted to thank you, for saving me.”

Clegane shifted awkwardly before her, as if he did not know how to receive gratitude.  “You didn’t look like you needed much saving,” he admitted, his voice gravely and harsh, contradicting his words.  He turned to go, her words of gratitude finished, and Sansa should have left it at that… _knew_ she should have left it at that.  But she could not, she had to know.

“Why?” Sansa asked, halting his retreat with her one question.  She dared not elaborate, knowing in the same way that she _knew_ the meaning of the colors no one else could see, that they were not alone.  She never truly was and the walls seemed to have ears.  The one word sounded like she was asking why he had come back for her, why he had killed those men.  But she was truly asking why he told no one that two of those men had died at her hands.

“Because it’s what I do, I kill people,” he answered bitingly and she _knew_ he understood her unasked question.  It was what he did…he was built for killing, raised for it, and no one would blink an eye if he added two more deaths to his long list of ghosts.  Unlike herself.

She bowed her head, accepting his answer to both the asked and unasked question.  Sansa stepped forward suddenly, closing the space between them.  Though they were being listened to, she _knew_ that no one was watching, and she raised a pale hand and rested it upon the burnt side of his face.  She had startled him, she saw, his eyes twitching as he flinched back.

The texture beneath her fingers was smooth, twisted and gnarled, but smooth like soft leather.  She stroked her fingertips from his temple, down the side of his cheek and over the beard on his jaw.  His eyes were watering, lips pressed tightly together as he swallowed thickly.  “Thank you, Clegane,” she whispered softly, dropping her hand before she turned from him and strode smoothly down the hall.  He was watching her, Sansa knew, his eyes fixed on her retreating form until she turned a corner and was gone.

She slept restlessly that night.  Her dreams were plagued by the memory of the stable, twisted and disjointed in the way only a dream could be.  Sansa was on her back, screaming and begging as the men held her down.  The grips on her ankles were tight and unforgiving as they pulled her thighs open.  A man was there, kneeling between her legs, and then he was thrusting into her.  The pain was immeasurable, only shadowed by the dagger he thrust into her belly.

Sansa awoke with a scream on her lips but she bit it off before more than a whimper could be uttered.  The nightmare left her like they all do in the cold light of day, but the pain stayed and there was something sticky between her thighs.  She pulled the sheets down with shaking fingers and her dress up.  There was blood everywhere.

At first she did not know what she was looking at, fearing that she truly had been stabbed, but then realization dawned on her like an icy fist and fear flooded her suddenly cold veins.  “No,” she whispered, terrified.  If anyone found out that she had flowered, that she could bare Joffrey’s children…

She dared not finish the thought, could not.

Instead, she sat there frozen, terrified and shaking as the blood spread.  _‘I can’t hide this,’_ she thought, eyes darting around the room to find anything that would help.  There was a fire burning in her hearth and a bowl of fruit with a plate of cheese upon the table.  Shae must have come while she had been sleeping.

Her eyes were drawn back to the fire.  She could burn her sheets, but the smoke would bring servants and guards…and there was no possibly way she could burn her mattress as well.  But perhaps there was a way that she could hide it, cover it with another truth that others would not see through.  Throwing herself from the bed, she ran to the dresser and pulled out clean smallclothes, a night gown, and a cloak made of thick wool.  She took off her soiled clothing, throwing the bloodstained garments into the fire, knowing they would burn to nothing but ash and pulled on the clean gown and smallclothes.

Taking the knife from the cheese platter she slit a long strip from the bottom of the cloak, shoving the rest back into her drawer and folding the strip until it fit into her palm.  She placed it inside her smallclothes, hoping it would hide anymore of her womanly blood.  Grabbing an apple, she made her way back to the bed.  Though it disgusted her to do so, she did not let her aversion stop her from crawling back to the bloody spot.  She sat in it, crossing her legs before her and placing a few pillows behind to lean against.

Cutting out several slices of the apple, she forced herself to eat it, swallowing passed the lump in her throat.  She waited until she was certain the last of the fabric had curled and burnt to nothing in the flame before she drew the blade back to the apple.  She held it upright, taking several sharp breaths to prepare her for what she was about to do.

Pressing the blade into the apple, she pulled it down, watching it part the skin and meat of the fruit until she reached the bottom.  Sliding the blade free, she lowered it to her palm and pressed the sharp edge into the meaty skin at her thumb and drew it down the side of her wrist.  The pain was excruciating, but she did not stop until she was a third of the way down her arm.

She was careful, even when her hands began to shake she knew she had to be careful.  When she was younger, Maester Luwin had shown them the most delicate parts of the body.  Sansa knew there were many important veins in her wrist that could kill her and she was careful to not to sever them.

The blade came free and the blood came with it.  Dropping the apple and the blade, she held her wrist before her and let the liquid trickle over her own moonblood, onto the sheets, and over her own gown.  She let herself bleed for only a moment before she grabbed at her sheets and started to press them to the wound to stem the flow.

Shae found her like that, crawling from her bed with her legs while she tried to keep pressure on her arm.  The Lorathi handmaiden rushed to her, dropping the water she had brought for the wash basin and grabbing at her shoulders.  The water washed over the stone floor and the red rug.  Sunlight glittered off of it, casting light throughout the room.

“What happened,” Shae asked hurriedly, pulling the cotton sheet away to look at the cut before pressing it back much more harshly than Sansa had.  “What did you do?”

“It was an accident,” Sansa mumbled as Shae led her to the chair next to the table.  The words made her dark eyes snap up to Sansa’s own blue ones as she knelt before her.  The air around her was clouded with disbelief as her gaze darted to the discarded apple and knife upon the bed, and then they trailed to large pool of blood at the center.  The color turned from a yellow orange to the greenish blue of understanding.

Shae ripped the cotton easily, making a long strip that she bound the wound with.  “Say it again,” the Lorathi snapped, tying off the ends so tight that Sansa could feel her fingers going numb.  Though that could be from the blood loss as well.

“It was an accident,” Sansa repeated, voice stronger with conviction and Shae stood slowly, nodding her head in approval.

She moved over to the hearth, grabbing the metal rod to stroke the fire.  The handmaiden pushed a small piece of cloth back into the flames before announcing her intent to get the maester.  Sansa smiled softly as she left, her wounded hand trembling in her lap as she popped a grape in her mouth and waited.


	6. Daenerys

“I’ve demanded a meeting with the Thirteen,” Xaro spoke quickly, his breaths coming in pants as he struggled to keep up with Daenerys’ quicker strides.  His life of luxury had left him ill-suited to chase after hot tempered young women.  “One of them did this or know who did.”

“You are _one_ of the Thirteen,” Dany bit out, boots echoing off the stone ground.  She still pulled slightly to her right to compensate for the loose heal that Irri had fixed.  The thought left her eyes watering with unshed tears.  She fought back the sensation, letting it fan the fire inside her instead.  Anger she could use…sorrow she could not.

“If I wanted your dragons, I would have taken them.  They mean nothing to me on their own.” Xaro’s words had her turning to the bottom of the stairs, gaze hard at the very notion of the thought.

“Nothing?” Her words were bitter with disbelief and grief.  The absence of her dragons had left a hollow hole in her heart where Drogo had once dwelled.  “Their more valuable than anything in the world.” Dany was not just speaking of a monetary value.  To her, nothing could ever replace her children.  The joy they had brought her, even in the in the devastating loss of her husband and the hardships of the red waste, she would change nothing if it meant she would her dragons.

“Shall we open my vault and see what your selling your dragons could buy that I could not buy already?” Xaro asked her, hand cradling the key to his treasures as he took two steps up the staircase towards her.

Her gaze was drawn to the green stones in the gold casing.  The setting sun catching the emeralds and shining off the gems the same way that they had off Rhaegal’s scales just that morning.  She fought to retain her anger, but for just a moment, the grief won out and her face twisted in sorrow.  “We will get them back,” Xaro insisted, his hand, gripped around his necklace, moved with each word as if to enunciate his point and just as suddenly her anger had returned.

Daenerys strode down the five steps separating them until she stood only a head taller.  “There is no _we_!” She spat, hand gripping the railing to ground her as much as to keep her from launching herself at Xaro in her rage.  “So why would you help _me_ get them back?”

Xaro leaned forward, his fingers only inches from hers on the stone railing.  “I took you under my protection in front of the rulers of my city,” his voice was soft and eyes sincere.  Daenerys caught herself leaning towards him despite her anger.  “A man is what others say he is and no more.  If they say that Xaro Xhoan Daxos is a liar, my word is worth nothing.  I cannot let this thing happen to you under my roof.”

Dany retreated a step higher, turning from him briefly as she fought to keep the tears at bay.  “But it _did_ happen under your roof.”

“Khaleesi,” Xaro implored, rumbling the title in soothing tones as if to calm a beast.  “Many times, in my life I have been-”

“I don’t care where you’ve been!” Dany cut him off, panting heavily as she bit back more words of rage.  She had little in the way of friends in Qarth, she could not afford to alienate the one that was still willing to help her.  Daenerys turned from him, to hide her rage or her grief she did not know, but her feet carried her swiftly up the steps in a way that felt too much like a retreat.

Kovarro, the last of her bloodriders, moved aside to let her pass once she reached the landing.  She paused there, gaze sweeping back to Xaro for just a moment as she took in his softened expression at the bottom of the stairs.  He pitied her, she realized, and that infuriated her more than his words.  She forced herself to keep moving, her feet carrying her within the  borrowed manse as Kovarro returned to block the passage.  It did not matter that the property on which she resided belonged to the very man who had promised her the return of her dragons, the young warrior would keep Xaro from ever entering for as long as she wished, even if it meant his death.  The thought did little to comfort her.

She stood in the opened bedroom gazing at the empty cages for hours.  Her cheeks were wet with tears that would not stop, but she had grown weary from wiping them away.  They were tender from the friction of her hands and she let them fall freely instead.  If she closed her eyes and concentrated she could feel them.  They felt…cold.

Kovarro remained at the top of the stairs, his gaze never wavering from the point of entry no matter how loud her sobs became.  Daenerys took comfort in his silent presence, and in his quiet absence.

The sound of booted feet on the steps drew her from her thoughts, and she turned when they continued onto the landing and into her room.  The faint sound of metal scraping from a sword jostling in its scabbard drowned out the birdsong from the half-curtained windows.  There was only one person Kovarro would have let pass while armed, and Daenerys felt her heart lift in relief as she turned and found herself gazing at the worn face of her old bear.

“You came back,” the words were choked, and she fought to compose herself.  Her face felt tacky, but she refused to draw attention to her drying tears by wiping them away.

“I came as soon as I heard,” Jorah replied, breathless.  He was covered in perspiration and panting harshly, the faint smell of stale sweat and salt reached her nose.  Daenerys realized that he must have run all the way from the docks.  Nearly two miles on foot through crowded streets.  “Do you know anything?”

She shook her head softly as she approached.  “Irri is dead,” the words caught in her throat as her gaze darted to the bloodstain on the floor.  Xaro had offered her a maid servant to wash away the evidence, but Daenerys had refused.  She was not sure if it was because she did not want to be in the presence of an unknown person, or if Irri’s blood being removed would make it seem like it had never happened.

The older woman had been her friend, one of her _best_ friends.  She had taught the khaleesi how to speak to her husband, washed her hands when she had broken the skin with her nails when being claimed too roughly, eased her aches from a long day’s ride, brushed her hair, and fixed her…fixed her shoes.  Daenerys took another step, and her heel held solidly from the repair.  More tears rushed to her aching eyes, and though she tried hard to fight them, several spilled over and she swiped hurriedly at them as if to keep Jorah from seeing.

The old bear turned from her, gaze darting to the empty cages upon the table as she composed herself.  “I know,” he said softly, hand still on the hilt of his blade as if to draw it to defend her from her own grief.  “She was a good-”

“She’s dead,” Daenerys cut him off, unable to bear his platitudes.  “She died alone,” more tears trailed down her cheeks, dripping off her chin and down her neck.  Jorah’s gaze returned to her and Daenerys found herself looking away, eyes fixed on the gold embroidered curtains fluttering gently in the breeze.  His expression of sorrow was more painful than his words of comfort and she could not bear to see it.  “She died for me and I could not _protect_ her.” Daenerys seemed to hiccup over the word ‘protect’, as if her throat was trying to suffocate her for her failings.

“Doreah?” Jorah questioned after a long moment of silence.

Daenerys’ gaze dropped to the copper stain once more, her head shaking in despair.  “We can’t find her,” She admitted, striding over the weaved rug and carefully stepping around the blood to stand before the window.  “She must be dead, too…” the thought pained her, but she knew that there was no other explanation for Doreah’s absence.  She adored the girl, even after the incident with her dragons.  She placed a hand on the balcony where she and Doreah had fed her children just that morning.

“They killed Aggo as well,” she continued, tone bitter.  “They just dumped his body at the bottom of the stairs like trash…” Dany took a deep breath to calm herself.  Fisting her hands on the ledge as she gazed out into nothing.  “I led my people out of the red waste and into the slaughter house.”

“I should have been here,” Jorah turned towards her, shifting his weight in his unease.

“You went to find me a ship,” she consoled as he approached her, towering over her in that way of his that comforted her instead of putting her on edge.  Drogo had done much the same before - she cut the thought off.  There was no need to add upon her sorrow, and her heart had no more room for her grief.

“My place is by your side,” Jorah shook his head, swaying in his indecision to give Daenerys more room as his queen, or to comfort her as a woman.  He steadied himself and did neither.  “I shouldn’t have left you alone with these people.” He was trying to draw away her guilt and focus her anger upon someone else.  Jorah knew that the Qarthian were to blame, but if Daenerys wanted to lay any upon him than he would gladly take it if only to lessen her own.

“These people?” She questioned bitterly.

He wanted to move away from her, but dare not retreat.  “They are not to be trusted,” he whispered, fighting his own reaction to yield to her anger and he instead met her gaze.

“And who is to be trusted?” Daenerys questioned, turning to him fully.  He took a breath to steady himself against her fury and yet still did not yield any ground to her.  “Who are my people? The Targaryen’s? I only knew one…my brother,” she admitted, voice twisting in as rage and anguish fought for dominance in her heart.  “He would have let a thousand men rape me if it would have got him the crown.” Jorah winced at her couth words, but his gaze held hers as the bitterness and anger leaked from her.

“The dothraki?” She continued, her eyes sliding to Kovarro beyond the warrior’s shoulder.  “Most of them turned on me the day Khal Drogo fell from his horse,” the words were steady, but her tone wavered over her husband’s name.  Her eyes slid to the trees and her face went slack as she remembered that day only two months ago.

“Your people are in Westeros,” Jorah tried to ground her and draw her from the painful memory.

His attempt yielded success as she turned back to face him so quickly, her hair fluttered around her shoulders.  “The _people_ ,” she bit the word out as if it was something distasteful, “in Westeros don’t even know that I’m alive.”

“They will soon enough,” he reassured her.

“Then what,” she questioned in disbelief.  “They’ll pray for my return, wave dragon banners and shout my name?” Daenerys turned from him, striding towards the empty cages once more.  “That’s what my brother believed, and he was a fool.”

“You are not you brother,” Jorah sighed at her back, more sure of that one fact than he had been of anything ever in his life.  “Trust me, Khaleesi.”

The words gave her pause, and she stopped her retreat.  Her hand came up to twist the ring on her index finger, twirling the pearl until the metal had made several rotations around the digit.  “There it is,” her words were soft, hands coming up to cradle her arms beneath her breasts.  She stroked her upper arm in a comforting gesture, head tilted towards the man behind her.  “ _Trust me,_ ” Daenerys parroted back.  “And it’s you, I should trust, Ser Jorah?  Only you?” She finally turned her head enough to see him out of the corner of her eye.

Jorah had no words.  He stood there mutely, hand still upon his pommel as he fought to find the right _anything_ to say to her to take away the mocking bitterness that colored her tone.  After a long moment of silence, she turned from him.  Her angry gaze returned to the empty cages and the words she spoke were heated.  “I don’t need _trust_ any longer,” he approached her slowly as she spoke the dark words.  “I don’t want it and I don’t have room for it.”

He reached for her with his bandaged hand, his fingers grazing her shoulder. “You are too young to be so-”

Daenerys whirled on him before he could make full contact.  “And you are too familiar.”

His hand raised itself from its barely there contact, fisting tightly when his queen turned her back once more.  Jorah retreated several steps as he apologized softly.  “Forgive me, Khaleesi,” he waited for her to say or do something, anything…but she stood there like a painted doll, doing nothing but staring at the empty cages.  “No one can survive this world without help.  No one…let me help you.” Still she did not speak nor move.  “Please,” he begged.  “Tell me how.”

Finally, she turned to him.  “Find my dragons,” Daenerys commanded, and Jorah nodded once, retreated two steps, and then strode quickly from the room.

~ Page Break ~

The Thirteen had been arguing for three hours, twelve men seated around the horseshoe table with plates of gold nearly empty of food.  They had sat there and eaten while Daenerys begged for their help, and the sat there now, arguing uselessly with the thirteenth member, Xaro.  The older man was seated next to her, not behind the table with the others.  As he was defending her and pleading her case, his position was by her side.  But as a member of the Thirteen, he -unlike her- was permitted to sit.

Dany’s feet ached and her lower back throbbed from the discomfort.  She had tried to discreetly shift to relieve the pressure, but fought that impulse now as she had caught several of the men eyeing her subtle movements with knowing eyes.  It was a test, she realized, they were trying to see how dedicated she was to her argument by testing her physical resolve.  Well, they could test that as much as they liked, she would stand her for _days_ if that was what it took to get her children back.

The only thing they were succeeding in testing was her patience.

Even now she could feel them…her children.  They were so _very_ scared.  Daenerys felt a weight upon her throat and chills swept up her arms, suddenly cold even though the room in which she stood was almost unbearably warm.  She blinked, and the sensation was gone.

“Please, I am begging you,” she pleaded for their deaf ears to hear her.  “They are my _children_.” Even as she spoke, voice cracking in the way that only a mother’s could, she watched as two more men continued to eat and another drank from a goblet of wine.  They were indifferent to her plight.

“You're begging us?” A man near the center questioned with a mocking tone.  “It wasn’t very long ago you were threatening us.”

Daenerys changed her argument when she realized that not _one_ man was swayed by her grief.  Instead she tried to argue their against their logic with her own.  The one who took her dragons had intended to _keep_ them.  They were no use dead.

“Without me, the dragons will die,” she fought to keep her voice from rising.  The domed ceiling made even the faintest yell echo obscenely loud.  No doubt another test.

“It will be for the best,” the spice merchant commented off handedly, as if he were discussing the weather.  “Your dragons will bring the world nothing but death and misery, my dear.” He shook his head at her as a servant refilled his wine, pausing long enough to take a sip before he continued.  “If I knew where they were, I would not tell you,” a jeweled hand waved at her dismissively.

Daenerys fought the words that wanted to bubble up from her anger.  Never before had she felt such a hatred for a single person.  Not even her brother’s madness could insight her anger as much as the indifference of the spice merchant.

“You are cruel, my friend,” Pyat Pree’s voice cut off whatever unpleasant thing that was surely to spill from her mouth, and for that she was grateful. She turned her gaze to the purple clad warlock, hoping that her anger would simmer if she did not have to look at the other man.  “The mother of dragons is in the right,” Daenerys fought to keep the surprise from her face as the other man defended her.  Hours they had been there, and no one but Xaro had spoken a word in her favor.  That Pyat Pree would speak now both relieved her and caused her unease. 

“She must be reunited with her babies,” the warlock turned to her, sitting so incredibly straight and proper that Daenerys found herself drawing her own shoulders back despite the pain to her aching muscles.  “I will help you, Khaleesi.”

Her gaze darted to the floor, around to the men who were all looking at Pyat strangely, and then back to the warlock himself.  “How?” She asked hesitantly.  She had not won over all the Thirteen, but perhaps just one more was enough.

“I will take you to the House of the Undying,” he leaned forward as if confessing something secret.  “Where I have put them.”

Daenerys was not the only one who was shocked at the admission, she noticed.  The spice merchant looked almost as pale as the warlock himself while the copper merchant suddenly looked ill and uncertain.  Anger made her flush, she could feel the fire inside of her boiling beneath the surface.

“You have my dragons?!”

“When I learned that you were coming to our city,” he continued in that same monotonous voice as if his confession meant nothing to him.  “I made an arrangement with the king of Qarth.” The others around them laughed and she saw the thin pale man sneer at their mirth.  “He procured them for me.”

Daenerys shook her head in confusion.  “But there is no king of Qarth.”

“There is now,” a voice beside her spoke and Dany turned as Xaro stood to tower next to her.  “That was the other half of the arrangement.”

Xaro was still speaking, even as terror gripped her.  She saw Kovarro unsheathe his arakh from the corner of her eye and slowly started to shift towards him.  She was nearly by his side when the warlock stood, and she froze for half a heartbeat, terrified that he had noticed her retreat, but Pyat turned from them, striding instead to stand beside the man who had sworn a blood oath for her, a man that had opened his home and his kitchens to her people…a man that had stolen her children.

Daenerys felt Kovarro grip her upper arm in his calloused hand, drawing her further back as the others began to speak. She allowed him the imposition upon her person and followed his careful steps as the passed the threshold of the two large and ornate gates that divided the room.

“The mother of dragons will be with her babies,” the words made her freeze in terror as the warlock turned to look at her briefly.  “She will give them her love, and they will thrive by her side.” Panic was clawing at her throat, the idea of what the two men had planned for her taking root within her mind.  They wanted to make a slave out of her…again, just as her brother had.  The mere thought of it would have paralyzed her had Kovarro not continued to gently pull her away, angling himself so he stood between her and the rest of the room. “Forever!” Pyat’s words made her look up and she saw a dozen of them.

Twelve warlocks with the same face stared back at her as eleven of them slit the throats of the remaining rulers of Qarth.  The men gargled on the blood, the crimson liquid decorating their golden plates and filling their wine goblets as one after the other they thudded lifelessly onto the table.  Daenerys barely had the chance to gasp in horror before Kovarro was shoving out of the room and down the hall.

She ran, more terrified than she had ever been.  Her only comfort was Kovarro’s steady presence beside her as she ascended the steps to the foyer.  At first, she mistook the person blocking her passage as her faithful bear, but the sight of the purple robes made her freeze in horror.  Somehow, the warlock now stood before her.

Kovarro threw himself in front of her, his hair too short to even sway as he took a defensive stance, and Daenerys was suddenly reminded of how young he was.  Her bloodrider had not proven himself in battle, and yet here he was, prepared to face down a man who could become twelve in a blink of an eye…for her.

Daenerys need not have worried for him, for a moment later a blade pierced Pyat Pree’s chest from his back and Jorah stood behind the purple clad man, hand upon the warlock’s shoulder to steady his thrust.  The smile that she felt curling her lips dropped as she watched Pyat gaze down at the sword puncturing his torso and then gazing back up at her as if he could not even feel it.

“A mother should be with her children,” he grinned with his blue lips and Dany stumbled away in horror as the warlock’s clothes dropped with no person within them.  She approached slowly, staring down at the robes that looked as if they had just been discarded, not having been worn only a moment before.

Movement from the window drew her attention and she gazed up in dazed terror as Pyat strode towards her in the same purple robes that lay at her feet.  “Where will you run too, Daenerys Stormborn?” He questioned genially.  “Your dragons wait for you in the House of the Undying… _come see them_.”

Jorah’s bare hand grabbed her arm and dragged her to the doors that led outside.  Daenerys stumbled down the three steps, the knights painful grip the only thing that kept her upright as they ran from the dark mansion and into the dazzling sunlight.

~ Page Break ~

She did not know how long they had fled, darting down packed streets and narrow alleyways until they ended up in a forgotten courtyard garden.  It had been overgrown, the tree roots bursting from beneath to crack the cobbled ground.  The branches above wove together and created a canopy so thick barely any light made it through.  Kovarro had rested himself on broken steps before a collapsed archway as she pleaded with her bear.

‘Go,’ she had told him, turning from the old knight as she said the words. ‘Go to Astapor then, where you will be safe.’ Even as she spoke, the words felt hollow.  But she could not ask him to stay, what she planned would surely mean her death if she failed, or eternal enslavement…but the thought of forsaking her children somehow seemed the worse fate of all.

‘You know I would die for you,’ he had replied, ‘I would never abandon you.’

And yet still she had begged, and he had pleaded…and somehow, as she had stoked his cheek and spoke of her children, he had acquiesced even though the thought of her doing exactly as the warlock wished, pained him to his very soul.

Even as Daenerys pulled a torch from the holster on the wall, ignoring her bear’s roars from outside and descended into the darkness alone, she knew that she had made the right decision.  ‘They are my children,’ she had told Jorah, ‘the only children I will ever have.’

The torch flickered as she walked further into the black.  “Your trying to frighten me with magic tricks!” Daenerys yelled, letting her anger eat away at her fear.  It was the only way to stay focused in such an oppressing darkness.  The stone was cold though the day outside was still scorching hot…even the air felt dead.

“You want me? Here I am, are you afraid of a little girl?!” She continued to shout as her torch stuttered but the flame held.  Daenerys would have continued yelling, her voice strong and giving her a confidence she did not feel, even as the unease from the lack of an echo settled in her mind.

Why was there no echo? Was everything within this _house_ dead?

A cry gave her pause and she turned suddenly to follow it.  Her children were crying, their tiny shrieks guiding her through the darkness.  The relief of hearing their voices shattering the last of her fear.

Daenerys descended two flights of stairs and ascended seven more before she reached the open room with seven doors.  An empty pedestal stood in the middle, and the cries of her children died away.  She looked down the grate in the floor, fearing she had gone too far, when a stuttered _kyeer_ pulled her back to the pedestal.  There was nothing there, but she could hear them.

Slowly, she rotated around the room, approaching one door and then another.  After a moments indecision, she threw the nearest one open and forced her way through…only to stumble in the snow.  Her torch guttered out and died as she ascended further into the snow-covered courtroom, spiked fire grates surrounding each pillar, snow falling from the broken and melted ceiling, silence thick and heavy like a blanket.

Daenerys dropped the torch, turning around in confusion as her gaze took in the stained-glass window of the seven-pointed star, before it settled upon a metal throne made from swords.  She approached it slowly, fingers hovering over the snow-covered monstrosity that her brother had pined for her entire life.  She lowered her hand before another _kyeer_ pulled her back.  Still her children called, and Daenerys forced herself away from the throne, following the echoing wails through the door she had entered…except now it was a gate large enough for three men a-horse to ride through.

The heavy metal drew up into the snow tunnel with a grinding noise as she approached it.  Daenerys glanced briefly behind her -back into the throne room- but only saw more of the same tunnel with another gate at the end.  She stood there uncertain for a long while, before she continued through the open gate and into the white land beyond.

She was walking through a blizzard, a wall of ice behind her so high she could not see the top.  Tucking her arms around her, Daenerys noticed abstractly that she was reacting to the thought of the cold, but she did not actually feel it herself.

A tent was before her, thick with hides and swaying softly in the harsh winds.  She pulled the flap back, entering the tent that was so familiar but _not_.  The blizzard outside was gone, and the tent was in the dothraki sea, the inside pleasantly cool compared to the heat she knew to be outside.

Her love sat before her, a baby of two months cradled in his massive arms.  Rhaego looked like him, she noticed through the tears that pooled into her eyes.  What cruel monster would show her this?

Daenerys spoke to Drogo, or the image of Drogo, in his mother tongue, kneeling before him as she cried silently.  Perhaps she had failed, and was already dead.  Was it so bad that she wanted to stay?

A pale hand caressed that baby’s cheek as her husband pressed his forehead to hers and still she wept.

 ** _“You are the moon of my life,”_** he said to her, voice soft and breaking over the words.  **_“That is all I know…and all I need to know.”_**

It was all she knew as well.  Drogo was her sun and stars…and Drogo was dead.  She clutched his hand as she turned to look at _their_ child, Rhaego, who had never lived.  Daenerys felt his fingers on her chin and allowed her face to be tilted back, pressing her own forehead hard against his and allowing their noses to brush.  Even still, the witch’s words echoed in her mind as it had every day since they were uttered.

“When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east…” she whispered to him as she pulled away.  “When the rivers run dry and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves.”  Daenerys cradled his face, touching the child, and then turning from him.  She could not look back, even though the temptation was strong.

Brushing aside the tent flap, she stuttered to a halt as she returned to the central room with seven doors as opposed to the winter waste land she had been in before.  On the pedestal that had been empty last time she was in the room, cried her dragons.  She approached them cautiously, eyes darting to every hidden shadow before she allowed herself to look at them.

Viserion hopped and fluttered his wings, pulling the chain taught and jerking back as it forced him to land awkwardly.  Rhaegal and Drogon stayed firmly on the stone, as far towards the edge as they could get without discomfort, kyeering and squeaking in distress.  She reached for them and they settled, clicking in contentment as she stood before them.  A voice interrupted her before she could touch their warm hides.

“They miss their mother,” Pyat spoke from behind her and she whirled around to keep herself between him and her children.  “They want to be with you,” the warlock spoke softly.  “Do you want to be with them?” His voice did not echo but the words came from behind her.

Pyat Pree stood there as well, before and behind her…Daenerys heart raced, and she tried to keep both insight.  The one before her moved to her left, the other matching his pace on her right and she could not watch both at the same time.  She heard the chains rustle and felt Drogon assuredly in her mind, and Daenerys settled her gaze on the first Pyat, trusting her children to keep theirs on the second.

“When your dragons were born, our magic was born again,” the warlock continued, but she was not longer listening.

Another Pyat stood before her as the other two settled on either side.  “You will be with them,” the warlock assured her. “Through winter, and summer, and winter again.  A thousand, thousand seasons you will be with them.”

Chains rattled, thicker and heavier than the ones binding her children and she felt her arms being pulled towards the walls.  Manacles hung from her wrists, the Pyats on either side pulling the chains until her arms were yanked taught away from her.  The dragons behind her screeched in outrage, and she could feel their fear on top of her own.

“Welcome home, Daenerys Stormborn,” the warlock smiled at her as he approached, voice smug and Dany felt such a rage inside of her that she was surprised her very skin did not alight in fire.

“This is not my home,” her voice drowned out the sounds of her distressed children, and she noticed that the other two Pyats were gone.  “My home is across the sea where my people are waiting for me.”

“They will be waiting a long time.”

She sneered at him before turning to look at her children.  They quieted instantly, gazes immediately shifting towards hers.  Daenerys saw Pyat move to peer under her arm, but she held her gaze until they turned their attention to the warlock.

Turning back slowly, she nearly whispered the command to the tiny dragons.  “Dracarys,” she felt understanding flood her perception, and Drogon coughed a tiny puff of smoke as Pyat tilted his head inquisitively before he frowned and moved away from her.  Daenerys smiled at his sudden worry and pressed the command to her children as Drogon had the thought of cooked meat to her, just a month ago.

A tiny ball of flame soared beneath her outstretched arm and Pyat’s robe caught on fire.  She smiled as he tried to bat the flames out, frowning at his arm as if the concept of him burning alluded him.  She pressed the command again, and three flames burst from behind her and engulfed the warlock and he _screamed_.

~ Page Break ~

Daenerys thought she should have felt surprise as she stood over the sleeping Xaro…or perhaps anger at least.  Instead she just felt tired.  He slept on his back, bare but for the blanket covering his waist and the emerald key around his neck.  Doreah lay next to him.

They awoke as Kovarro stole the key, Xaro arising so suddenly she ended up seeing far more of him than she had ever wanted to.  Even with him bared as he was, she approached.  Jorah kept pace with her, and the last six of her blooded fighters flanked her from behind.  Drogon shrieked from his perch on her shoulder as Doreah sat up.  The lorathi’s pretty face was scratched where the black dragon had dug his tiny claws into her skin.

“Khaleesi, please,” her once friend begged.  Daenerys felt nothing for her.  She was not moved by her plea, she felt no pity for her plight, nor anger for her involvement in Irri’s death…Daenerys felt nothing at all.  “He said you would never leave Qarth alive,” she justified, as if _selling_ her had been the better option.

“Come,” Dany cut her off before she could further explain.  She did not want explanations…she wanted justice.

Drogon kyeered from her shoulder as she turned, Rhaegal and Viserion sitting primly in her palms as they gazed at around the room in disinterest.  Her warriors parted for her, and she handed the two smaller dragons to the eldest dothraki woman that had survived their journey.  When a younger woman, older than Dany by at least three name-days, tried to take Drogon, the tiny black snapped at her fingers and Daenerys gestured to her to leave him be.

Her children had become clingy after she had recovered them.  Viserion crooning even now in pitiful tones as the women put him and the green in cages.  Drogon, on the other hand, became aggressive to those who tried to separate them, even if it was Daenerys herself.  He snapped and hissed, snarling little smoke trails and puffing himself up when she tried to put him in his own cage.  In the end, she was too tired to fight with him, and let him remain on her shoulder.

It was hard, ignoring the sad crooning of her caged children as she left the room, but it had been a long day, and Daenerys had not the patience, nor inclination, to let them witness what was to happen next.  She turned to look at the leather cages, and her mind _pressed_ to theirs.  Daenerys demanded obedience…and her children fell silent.

She could hear shouting behind her as Jorah and the other men forced Xaro and Doreah from the bed and allowed them to only grab a robe for decency…hers more than there’s.  They followed behind her, Jorah and the two prisoners with Kovarro and the six warriors -the children and the women stayed in the room with the now obedient Viserion and Rhaegal- as she descended the steps into the chamber that held Xaro’s vault.

Kovarro unlocked the intricate and ornate door as Jorah and another warrior, Baro, came forward and hauled the massive valyrian steel open.  She thought they would need a forth, before finally it swung on its bolted hinges and presented its contents to her.  Even as she stepped forward, Daenerys knew what she would see.

“Nothing,” she whispered as she stepped into the empty vault.  Drogon clicked into the open space and she heard it echo off the stone walls, the sound of it a relief after the echoless House of the Undying.  “Thank you, Xaro Xhoan Daxos,” she said, turning to the two prisoners.  “Thank you for teaching me this lesson,” with a nod of her head, Baro shoved the king of Qarth forward.

Doreah started to wail as another forced her to follow.  Daenerys moved passed them, Xaro’s pleading falling on deaf ears as she came to stand beside her bear.  Drogon puffed himself up, clicking and chirruping almost haughtily as the two were forced into the empty vault.

“Please, Khaleesi, I beg you,” Doreah cried, falling to her knees before the door.

“Did Irri beg?” Daenerys questioned with a flat voice.  She was not accusing, but also not curious.  The question was not one she truly wanted an answer to…she had asked simply to ask.

“Khaleesi, don’t do this! I can help you!”

Doreah’s dothraki guard yanked her back up and dragged her into the dark hole. “Please! Please! Khaleesi, Ple-”

The door was closed on their cries and silence filled the corridor as the locks clicked in place.  Jorah handed her the emerald key and Daenerys took it with a steady hand.  The fiery rage had burnt out inside of her.  Now she just felt tired.  The others began to turn away, drawn back upstairs to the gold and jewels that Xaro’s _wealth_ had bought.  She stood there for a long time, the key in her hand, gaze on the vault door.  Jorah and Kovarro were silent behind her, present but removed.  She let her grief free, her sorrow of Doreah’s betrayal and Irris’s murder, Aggo’s sprawled body and the vision of her husband.

No tears came, her eyes were dry and her heart finally whole.  Daenerys turned from the vault door and left the two betrayers to their dark fate.  It was justice, she told herself as she ascended the stairs.

It was justice.


End file.
